


Phantom Load

by lovesrain44



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst Dean Winchester, Dark, Gen, Gen Fic, Kid Fic, Rape, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con References, Underage Sex, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-22
Updated: 2011-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:02:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 54,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrain44/pseuds/lovesrain44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam return to Boulder, CO, where they investigate a haunted school. The job seems simple enough to Sam, who has good, although vague, memories of living in Boulder back in 1992, when John Winchester rented a single-wide trailer, and the boys were able to walk home from school together. Dean, however, has altogether different memories, far less pleasant and far more damaging. It's during the investigation that Sam discovers the secret that Dean doesn't realize he's been hiding.</p><p>This story is set in the present day and in the past. It is not wincest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phantom Load - Part 1

**Title:** Phantom Load  
 **Author:** Lovesrain44  
 **Artist:** Xterm  
 **Genre:** Gen  
 **Characters:** Sam, Dean, Dad, OFC's  
 **Fic Rating:** NC-17  
 **Art Rating:** G  
 **Word Count:** 54,000  
 **Warnings:** Kidfic, underage non-con, not wincest; present day, dark, angst.  
 **Summary:** Dean and Sam return to Boulder, CO, where they investigate a haunted school. The job seems simple enough to Sam, who has good, although vague, memories of living in Boulder back in 1992, when John Winchester rented a single-wide trailer, and the boys were able to walk home from school together. Dean, however, has altogether different memories, far less pleasant and far more damaging. It's during the investigation that Sam discovers the secret that Dean doesn't realize he's been hiding.  
 **A/N:** Sorry, Dean. I was compelled by forces beyond my ken to be really, really cruel to you.

 ****

 **Tuesday, November 21st, 2006**

Sam snapped the phone shut, and shifted in his seat. "Okay," he said, "I got us a gig." The darkening flat landscape sped past outside the passenger window.

"What kind?" Dean asked this without taking his eyes off the road or his hands off the wheel.

"Haunted school," said Sam. He pulled out a map and unfolded it, scanned it, and then folded it back up and stuffed it under the seat. "Just keep heading west on I-25, and then up 36 into Boulder."

"Boulder?" asked Dean. "It's in Boulder?" There was a flick of Dean's eyelashes as he spared Sam a glance.

"Yeah, so? Didn't we used to live there once? It's an okay town."

"Yeah." This from Dean as he cranked up the heat.

"Yeah, what? What, Dean?"

A moment of silence followed this question and Sam had the feeling that Dean wanted very badly to turn up the music, which was now playing the driver-picked Pink Floyd at a low enough volume so that Sam could talk on the phone. Now that Sam was done, the driver was within his rights to turn the song back up.

"Nothing," said Dean, turning up the music. Not looking at Sam.

The sun was going down, and the wind picked up. They were about two hours out of Denver, he figured, and could probably pick a motel in a bit and then head into Boulder in the morning. It would make more sense than trying to push it, especially if the weather got bad. As he recalled, Colorado was not known for mild weather or good driving conditions, especially before Thanksgiving.

"We're to meet with Audrey Clarke, she's the principal, at 10, so I thought-"

"A principal? You're making me talk to a principal?"

Dean's silent scoff at this did not surprise Sam. His brother had been harangued by more principals in more schools than probably any kid on the planet. They were not his favorite people.

"He's Mr. Panowski's cousin, remember the guy we went up in the plane for?"

"Oh, he's got a cousin?"

"Yeah, she thought there was something strange going on at her school. She told him about it, and he-"

"Told her to call us."

"Yeah."

"It's amazing how we manage to get work without advertising."

It seemed like Dean meant this to be funny, but there was a slight edge to his voice. Though, truth be told, since Dad had died, there was a constant slight edge to Dean's voice, often met by a glance from eyes that would slice through you rather than stay. As if this would push everyone away. Dean had learned the expression long ago, Sam couldn't remember when, to keep others at bay. Sometimes Sam felt that in order to get beyond it, he had to walk through barbed wire and then would have to retreat anyway.

"If we stop early," said Sam now, "we won't have to push it." He said it that way deliberately. _We_. As if he could possibly be as tired as Dean was, Dean who didn't want to share the driving with anyone. If he made it out that he was tired, that little brother needed some rest, then it was likely that Dean would stop. But only for that reason, never for himself. "I could use the stretching out."

Dean hummed for a minute and tapped the steering wheel with his ring finger, making a clack-clack sound like an old cash register doing calculations.

"Is there something at Denver?"

"Bound to be a Super 8 or something like it," said Sam, letting out a sigh he hadn't known he was holding. He wanted to stretch out and stare at the ceiling while Dean caught whatever late TV he was bound to insist he wanted to watch, and then Sam would let the white light and the low volume sing him to sleep. The break at the end of each day was becoming familiar, not a lot of conversation, sure, but a pattern he could fall into. That Dean, no doubt, had fallen into without even realizing it. Dean fell into a pattern as likely as the next fellow, but point it out to him and he was liable to want to shake things up, just on principle. Sam made a mental note not to mention it to him.

By the time it was full dark, the wind had died down and the lights of Denver, once just a sparkling promise through the hills on the horizon, became real and flashy and had signs that promised comfortable clean beds, free cable, and wi-fi. Sam pointed at the exit for the cheapest motel he could see, and realized that Dean wasn't actually looking. So he gave Dean a jab in the shoulder and then pointed.

"I see, I see," said Dean, not irritated. More, tired, the low energy showing in the set of his shoulders.

"At least it's not snowing," said Sam.

"Not yet," said Dean, taking the exit. "In which case, we are booking out of here, you get me? I do not want to become trapped here."

It was an odd thing for Dean to say, but he was taking the curve of the exit ramp hard, and Sam hung on to his seat and leaned into it. Snow normally didn't bother Dean, although he was bound to fuss over his best girl getting ice in her undercarriage.

Dean pulled into the parking lot and flipped Sam a credit card. Sam took it without looking, figuring he was either going to be a rock star, or an obscure New Yorker.

He got out of the car into the icy, thin air, thinking about his jacket, which he'd folded under his head, and decided it would take too long to mess with it if he was just checking in.

"Ask for a first floor," said Dean as Sam shut the door.

The motel had a room on the first floor and at the far end of the motel, which was lucky. This meant less noise, and they could park the Impala directly outside of their door. That way, if they had to carry in guns or anything that could be seen as threatening, they didn't have as far to risk it. Sam took the keys, waved at Dean, and walked down the sidewalk to the last door on the end. Dean followed with the Impala and then parked it as Sam unlocked the door. A whoosh of heat flowed over him as he opened it and flicked on the lights, casting his eyes around to see the usual layout, the usual colors, the bathroom that smelled like green cleanser, the hum of the heater under the far window.

Dean was right behind him with duffle bags, Sam's laptop, Sam's jacket. Sam carried in everything else they'd need for the night, not much, and then he locked the Impala and hurried in to close the door behind him. Checked the locks, and watched Dean lay out the bags on their respective beds. Dean's was near the door, of course, though Sam could never figure out what difference it made.

He didn't say anything about it, though. It would just start an argument, useless as all the other ones were, and leave them both feeling like badly-peeled road kill. He only nodded to Dean, grabbed up the local menus, and called for delivery. Chinese. Knew Dean heard him order, knew that if that wasn't okay, Dean would have said something. He didn't.

When the food came, he concentrated on that, let Dean have the majority of the egg rolls, and cleared away the trash without seeming obvious about it. Dean would think he was fussing, and that always irritated him.

As he stuffed the last of the broccoli beef in his mouth, Sam said, "This is only her second year as principal, you know."

"Who?" Dean asked this without turning his head, absorbed in the shocking truth about haunted homes in Great Britain.

"Mrs. Clarke, the principal. I said she's only been at it two years, so she's probably not a curmudgeon. Yet."

"Do they even have women principals? I didn't think they did."

"Apparently in Boulder County they do."

"Huh," was all Dean said.

Sam shook his head and then made taking-a-shower-now noises, in case Dean wanted to get into an argument with him about that. But Sam met with no resistance and slunk into the white-tiled room to rinse the road dirt and sweat from his skin and to make his shoulders relax under the hot water. The gig in Boulder sounded easy enough; haunted schools, if it was a haunting, typically didn't have complicated family dynamics to work around, or very many things ghosts would be interested in hanging around for. They would be in and out of there in no time, perhaps taking a break at the end of it to get some turkey and pumpkin pie.

 

 ****

 **Wednesday, November 22 nd, 2006**

As they pulled into the parking lot of Platt Jr. High school, everything was frozen, which seemed normal enough, but Sam found that he could barely recognize the school, for all he'd been there every day for almost a month. The only thing that seemed familiar was the long line of the top of the building, the red brick against the blue sky. And the orange buses, lined up to take kids home early on the day before Thanksgiving. He got out of the Impala, pushed down the lock, and shut the door behind him. He snuck his hands in his pockets and turned to wait for Dean who was taking an awfully long time.

Sam leaned down to tap on the glass of the passenger door.

"Hey," he said. "The principal is not going to eat you, Dean."

Dean scowled at him and put the car into park. He set the parking break and got out as well, using his keys to lock the door, sweeping a hand over the hood without touching the paint job. Then he looked at Sam.

"Why are we taking this job again?" he asked.

"Because, Dean," said Sam, trying not to huff. Failing. "Mrs. Clarke is a cousin of Mr. Panowski's. We come highly recommended. Some thing, some entity, has been messing up the school, and the janitor has had enough."

"The janitor?" asked Dean.

Sam was looking right at him, or he would have missed it. Dean swallowed and tucked his chin down towards his right shoulder. It was a move he used when he was preparing to fight, but without the fists to back it up, that and the lack of squared shoulders caught Sam. It was strange.

"You okay?" he asked.

Dean's head snapped up. He smiled at Sam. "Yeah. Sure. I just don't like principals, is all. Meeting with one. For any reason. Gives me hives."

"We've got Calamine for that," said Sam. He waved Dean on with his hand and started across the parking lot, bare of snow but slippery with ice in places. The buses, orange against the brick, were parked end to end in the front of the school, and he walked along them, not looking to see if Dean was following him. They had a job to do; Dean knew that. This was an easy gig as well, a phantom in a school house, and them with four solid, uninterrupted days to solve it.

As he rounded the last bus on the end, he felt Dean at his shoulder, the scent of leather warm in the cool air. They walked up the sidewalk together, stepping out of the way of a group of shrieking and running girls, backpacks and hair flying. Kids with hats, kids with boots and backpacks, parents milling, the din growing and bouncing off the red brick.

"Where's her office?" Dean asked, as they were about to go in one of the double doors.

"You should know," said Sam. "You were the one who went here." He hadn't gone to this school, but he'd met Dean any number of times on the very sidewalk where they were standing. He had a flicker of a memory of Dean charging out from the double doors, running, late and breathless. He never remembered Dean being late to meet him, but perhaps Dean had thought he was late.

"Yeah, but I never got called to the principal's office," said Dean now.

Sam pulled the door open and then paused to look at his brother. "Never?"

Dean shook his head and slipped under Sam's arm to move into the current of warm air that pushed itself out into the cold.

"Not at this school," Sam heard.

"No fights, nothing?"

"Nope."

It was hard to believe, given Dean's track record at any school he'd ever gone to. But whether Dean was making it up or not probably didn't matter anymore, so Sam let it go.

There was a sea of kids coming at them, splitting around Sam and Dean like water around rocks at high tide. He saw that Dean was looking up the hallway, but couldn't see his expression.

"I think it's this way," said Sam. Then when Dean didn't move, or look to see which way he was pointing, Sam said, "Dean." And again. "Dean."

"Huh?" Finally, Dean turned to look.

Sam pointed down the hallway to the right. "This way, dude."

The sign over the door said Principal; it was hard to miss. The secretary buzzed them in, and they were soon in a comfortable little office, with big windows overlooking the row of buses, running children, and beyond that, the jagged edges of purple that were the front range in wintertime.

"Mrs. Clarke," said Sam, reaching out to shake her hand. "I'm Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean."

Looking prim and organized in her dark blue suit, hair swept back in a braid, she shook Sam's hand and then Dean's. "Call me Audrey, please. And here is Phil, our janitor. Come in Phil."

Sam felt Dean's body jerk beside him as the man came in, brown haired and wearing wire rim glasses, dressed in blue jeans and a grey workman's shirt. The label on his shirt said Phil, and he held out his clean hand. They shook it, and Dean let out a whoosh of air.

Everyone sat down.

"So," said Audrey, sitting behind her desk, "Let's get right to it. We've had disturbances for the last six months, and we can't account for them. Phil has been keeping track."

Phil leaned forward. "Yeah, six months," he said. "I wrote it all down, you see, because I thought I was imagining things, making them up. Can't have that."

"Phil," said Audrey, breaking in, "is getting his PhD at night."

Sam nodded, felt his eyebrows rise. That made it a little different, though he would be the last person to say it aloud. "We'd love to see your notes," he said. "But, just in general, what kind of things?"

"Clocks stopped, like they were turned off, light bulbs exploding, lockers opened, doors opened that I was sure I had locked. Stuff like that. And X marks everywhere in grease pencil. Every time I wash them off, they come back again."

"How do you know it's not kids?" asked Dean. "You know, kids with problems, messing stuff up."

"Well," said Phil, "that's what I thought. At first. But it happens at night. When the school is closed and sealed up tight. And the X's are in weird spots that a kid couldn't reach without a ladder. But the ladder is heavy and is in the boiler room, so..."

"Okay," said Sam. "So not kids. Not any adults either? Someone with an issue with the school, or-"

"We don't think so," said Audrey. "Like Phil said, it happens at night, and it's everywhere, those grease pencil marks are a distraction and we've asked around-"

"Doesn't mean it's not someone who works at the school," said Dean with a little snap.

Sam looked at him and tipped his head. "Look," he said to both Phil and Audrey, keeping his voice low and even. They were probably right, but he had to make sure. Besides which, they were awfully calm about the whole ghost thing. "We know you think everyone should be considered innocent until proven guilty. But what makes you think it's a ghost instead of a human adult?"

"You can't get in the school once the alarm is set without setting it off. And while maybe James Bond could get in, no one who works here could. It's a pretty good system, and I double check it every night," said Phil.

Dean looked over at Sam and then he asked. "Why do you think it started six months ago?"

"We-" Phil started, then he stopped. Looked at Audrey. "Both of us started working here six months ago. It's been happening the whole time we've both been here. Maybe it was going on long before that, I don't know."

"You could check with Mr. Mates. He was the principal before me. He just retired," Audrey said.

"And the other janitor," said Phil. "The one who worked here before me. You could check with him."

"Mr. Gunnarson?" asked Dean, his voice taking a strange high pitch that made everyone in the room turn to look at him. His eyes were wide and round. "He's the j-j-he's the-"

"No, it wasn't a Mr. Gunnarson. The last janitor we had was Rondo Blake."

"Kind of a hippy type," said Phil. "Not really the janitor type."

"So you could talk to him," said Audrey. "I have his address here. And Bob Mates. Maybe they could tell you more."

Sam folded and unfolded his hands against his thighs as he thought about this. Talking to people who had been at the school longer than six months was a good start, but he'd hoped the job would be simpler than that. He wasn't up to talking to many more strangers than he already had, not when he'd anticipated a long weekend and an easy gig. They both needed it. He looked over at Dean who was studying the floor with the interest of an avid scientist. Sam quelled the urge to kick him. Then he looked up.

"Yeah, we'll take those addresses," he said. "We'll go talk to them tomorrow, see what they have to say."

"Oh," said Audrey, looking startled. "Not tomorrow, of course."

"Why not?" asked Dean.

"It's Thanksgiving. They'll all be with their families. Eating."

"Oh," said Dean, though Sam knew he himself had forgotten. The Winchesters had never been big on any holiday.

"Yeah," said Phil. "I'll get to stay in town this year, with all the relatives coming. My wife is up to her eyeballs in turkey and stuffing, so I should get going and lend a hand or my name'll be mud. You guys want me to show you around first?"

"I went to school here," said Dean, speaking up, his voice flat.

"Well, sure, you'd know your way around then. But I can show you the janitor's closets, the boiler room. Maybe you can replace some light bulbs or something to make it look legit. I mean, if you're up for that."

"Sure," said Sam. He stood up and wiped his palms on his jeans. Audrey's office, with the sun pounding in through the open blinds, was getting overly warm. "I've always wanted to see a janitor's closet. Or a boiler room." He looked over at Dean to share the joke, but Dean, now standing, was looking out through the glass in the closed door to the office. Sam couldn't see his face. "Show us what you got, Phil," said Sam instead of giving Dean a poke. "Can't promise miracles, but I've been known to wield a broom in my day."

*

Phil took them up the ramps for each hallway, and Sam recognized the H-shape from Dean's long-ago descriptions. Though he'd been taken by van every day after elementary school to meet Dean, he'd never actually been inside. The H-shape was cut across by three short hallways, and everything looked spic and span. Shining.

"You keep a nice school," said Sam. He waited for the jibe from Dean about having lustful thoughts about good old-fashioned school days, but none was forthcoming. Where was Dean? Sam turned his neck sharply to find Dean standing back as Phil paused in front of a door along the wall. His shoulders were hunched high in his leather jacket and he was staring at his feet.

Sam opened his mouth to say something, to ask if Dean was all right, but then Phil said, "Well, thank you, Sam," and took out a ring of keys to unlock the door and open it. The smell of lemon-lime chemicals wafted out at them.

"Here's a janitor's closet, slop sink, cleansers, brooms, trash bags, and so on," said Phil. "There's another one on the other side of the school. I keep some light bulbs in here."

"What is this stuff?" asked Sam, moving forward to take a look. "Man, that smells strong."

"Cleaning supplies," said Phil, laughing a bit. "If you boys get a mind to, you can give the floors a mop and then put down a layer of wax. The instructions are on the label here, just follow them." He tapped a large plastic container on the floor with his foot, and then laughed again to show he was joking. His keys jingled as he locked the door.

"And now, if you'll follow me, we'll go down to the boiler room. You won't have to do much there, but the emergency switch is down there, plus my very large supply of light bulbs."

"Why very large?" asked Sam, following Phil as he led the way down a little side hallway. He looked back to make sure Dean was following. Dean was still, silent, a little folded in on himself. Sam cocked his head and tried to catch his brother's eye, but Dean wasn't having any of it. Sam had to trot to keep up with Phil.

"Well, like I said, the light bulbs keep exploding, and I have to replace by the gross ton these days. They get broken in the closets, so, I keep most of them down here."

He'd stopped in front of a door all by itself in a dead end of a short corridor. He used the keys like before and as he opened the door, the musty basement odor that Sam had smelled a hundred times before rushed out at them. Phil reached in to flip on a switch and then turned to smile. "You'll get a crick in your neck replacing light bulbs by the time you're done, but if you can do that, and dust them a little, then you'll do me a favor and a job well done."

Sam nodded. It didn't sound hard. He could replace a few bulbs.

"Well," said Phil, looking back at them. "Get on in here."

Sam started down the steps after him and then realized that Dean still wasn't right behind him.

"Hey," he said, standing on the top, metal step. "You coming?"

"Uh," said Dean. It might have been the light, but his freckles were standing out on his face like they'd been painted on. "Maybe I'll just stay here."

"You're not afraid of the dark, are you." It wasn't a question, but delivered with as much scathing sarcasm as Sam could muster.

"No, I'm not afraid of the dark." Dean said this, but his mouth barely moved and he didn't come closer to the top of the stairs.

"We need to check this out Dean," said Sam, his exasperation rising like steam. "Will you please just come on?"

It was slow, but Dean followed him down the stairs, down the little corridor, and past the row of boilers, hissing away. They all crowded into the brown office, lit by rows of fluorescent bulbs, and the row of fogged glass windows that let some sunshine in. As Sam looked around, he tried not to frown. He couldn't imagine working in a place like this, with the layers of cobwebs among the supporting beams of the floor above, the dents in the filing cabinets, the gouges in the worktable against the wall, the spoon-shaped dent in the cage over the ancient wall clock. The floor, covered with original linoleum, splattered with stains, and the whole of it smelling of mold and lemon-lime cleanser.

"This is the office," said Phil. "All the comforts of home. Including the couch. It's a sleeper, but I can't ever get it open." He tugged on the corner of a blanket sticking out as Sam looked. It was an old couch, green, with rough patterns worn smooth by time, obliterated by hand-grease along the arms and dents where people had sat. "The bulbs are in here," Phil said as he led the way to a little side room where the long blue boxes were stacked. "Really, I can't keep up with the demand. If it's a ghost, he's bleeding me dry in the bills for these things. They're expensive."

"We'll check it out for you," said Sam, stifling the urge to wipe his hands on his pants. The place was unbelievably dusty.

"You know," said Phil, "it's a mess, but the money goes where the parents can see it, you know?"

"Yeah," said Sam. Then he turned to Dean, who was standing at the entrance to the grungy office, the flickering lights of the boiler indicators over his shoulders, jacket still on, hands at his sides. "You coming in?"

"Uh," said Dean. He didn't move. "No, I'm good here."

Sam sighed. It was getting ridiculous, but short of yelling at Dean in front of a stranger, there was nothing he could do. "Extra set of keys," he said now to Phil, "and the code for the alarm, and we'll be all set."

"You'll take good care of my school?" asked Phil, digging in a desk drawer. "You won't let her get into any trouble, will you?" He handed over a stiff little card and a ring of keys. The card had seven numbers on it, the code for the alarm. "Sometimes I can't wait to get away. Other times, I can never imagine leaving this place."

Sam smiled at him, thinking of places he'd rather not have left, towns he'd grown to feel familiar in. "We'll take care of her for you," he said, looking over at Dean. Who was standing as still as if he were playing a game of statues, his eyes on the long row of narrow windows on the far wall. "Don't worry, okay?"

"Okay," said Phil. "Audrey trusts you and that's enough for me."

 

 ****

 **Wednesday, January 8 th, 1992**

It was the morning of their first day of school in the new school, and Dad was gone. The sun streamed in the windows like it was boring its way in. There was a note on the dining room table with a phone number for Pastor Jim that Dean had memorized, but it never hurt to be sure. Next to the note were the keys to the trailer. The keys were on a string. Dean slipped these over his head, and scratched his tummy under his t-shirt. Sammy followed close behind, scratching his tummy too, striped pajamas, inherited from Dean, flooding over his toes, his hair standing up in a wreath around his head.

"What's for breakfast?" he asked.

Dean looked at the counter. He'd left butter out to soften the night before, and there was fresh bread and sugar in the canister. He looked down at Sam, nodding, as if his idea were a good one, already accepted. Sam was hardly likely to argue; the more sugar the better. "How 'bout sugar and butter on bread?"

Sammy's nod almost snapped his neck. He pulled a chair over to help make it while Dean pulled out the loaf of bread from the breadbox and pulled out four slices. He laid them on the counter. Then he took a knife from the dish drainer and spread the butter. Then he smiled.

"Okay, Sammy. Your turn."

Sammy grabbed the sugar canister, which was only an old tin cup with a battered spoon in it, but it held sugar up to the rim. Dean had made sure of it. With a wild wrist, Sammy flung sugar over the butter and the counter and everywhere. Dean scooped some of it up into his hand and spread it over the bread.

"More?" asked Sammy, and although the bread was shimmering white now, without a speck of butter to be seen, Dean nodded and pressed the sugar in with the blade of the knife.

"Yep," he said. "It's good energy. It'll keep you going all day."

Younger brother flung more sugar as though it were an art form, and then, with Sammy standing on the chair, towering over Dean, and Dean in his bare feet, wading in sugar crystals, they ate. Dean stuffed his mouth full, waiting for the inevitable question. Which came, soon after Sammy had finished his first slice.

"Where's Dad?" His mouth sparkled.

Dean chewed. Slowly. Made himself nod and shrug. "On a job. You know. Like he does. I'll take care of you though."

It happened almost every time. Even the sugar-ladened buttered bread in his hands was almost not enough to placate Sammy. He liked it regular; he liked Dad home.

"But I want-"

"Doesn't always matter what you want, Sammy," said Dean, through a mouthful. He licked his lips. "We talked about this, remember? Dad's gotta work. You and I will go to school, just like always."

"And you'll walk home with me after?"

Dork. Like that was the best part of his day.

"Yeah," said Dean. "And we'll have hot dogs for dinner."

Sam's eyes sparked at this. Hot dogs meant mustard. Lots of mustard, which Dean knew he loved. He'd forget about Dad being gone with visions of that in his head.

*

The school hallway echoed with students' voices bouncing off the brightly painted walls, the polished floors. Dean shifted his shoulders back and walked into it, the floor shining beneath his feet. He had half-used spiral notebook and pen in one hand, and a piece of paper in his other hand, telling him where his homeroom was, and what his schedule was. Plus, for some reason, he had Sam's crayons in his coat pocket; he could feel them bouncing against his leg. He shifted everything to one hand and took them out. It was only a little box of 24, but they were the real deal, not a knockoff bought at an outlet store. Dad had brought them as a treat for Sam for being reasonable about leaving his old school. Dean brought the box up to his nose to smell them; they reminded him of Sam, who hopefully would not get into trouble for not having the full set of supplies for a 3rd grader.

A bell rang, and everyone jumped and started scurrying around. Dean let the energy of the hallway pull him in the direction of the right room. He was two days late for the semester, but that didn't matter. They wouldn't probably be around long enough for it to matter, or for any teachers to start expecting anything out of him. He just had to keep up and keep his head down. That's what Dad had told him before he left. That's what Dad wanted.

Someone bumped against him, and Dean slid the crayons back into his coat pocket. It wouldn't be good to be seen with a little kid's crayons. That would bring on a fight for sure. No fights, Dad had said. Dad had said a lot of other things, but the no fights one had stuck.

His homeroom was with Mrs. Monroe in Room 103. Dean walked in, head high, catching some kids' eyes, ignoring others, nodded at the woman who must be Mrs. Monroe, and took a seat near the door. He rubbed his nose as he set his feet under the desk. His hand smelled like crayons. This made him laugh; Sammy was going to give him such shit for accidentally taking them.

Mrs. Monroe gave him a locker number and a combination, but no one wanted to share with him. He was the new kid; it was almost a given. That was okay with Dean. When they were dismissed, he found the locker, opened it, and stored his coat. Besides the notebook and pen and the dollar for lunch, it was all he had.

Then he walked among the sea of kids to science class. Once there, he sat as far away from the cage with the rat in it as he could. The teacher glowered at him for not having a book already, and was even less pleased when Dean pulled forth his ragged spiral notebook and placed it on the desk. At least he had that and a pen. The teacher could go to hell.

In gym class, Dean didn't have the regulation clean, new, non-street sneakers or the uniform, and so he had to sit out. That wasn't so bad. The bleachers had a nice view of the girl's side of the gym, where they were wearing the modest, Catholic-girl cute uniforms and learning tumbling. With his elbows on the bleacher behind him, he tipped his head back and tried to snooze, but wasn't tired. Sam had been over the moon with joy at the thought of starting a new semester almost on time. Crayons or no crayons, Sammy was, no doubt, having a fine fucking time.

As was the stocky, dark-haired kid he could see on the other side of the volleyball net. He had some other kid in a headlock and was smacking him on the back of the head. The teacher called out his name with a snap _Joel Booth!_ to make him stop, and Dean could see right away he was a bully. Only a bully would pick on a littler kid for no reason or smack him that hard just for fun. And then one last time after that for good measure. Dean made a mental note to stay away from him.

When the bell rang, Dean clomped down off the bleachers and took out the torn schedule from his pocket. He had English and then math, neither of which sounded any fun. He walked down the hall. Where was 22B? The numbers over each room didn't seem like they went in sequence, but maybe, like with hunting, the pattern wasn't an obvious one. He didn't want to stop an adult to ask, that would just draw attention. Besides, Winchesters didn't ask for directions. They gave them. Or invented them.

The school was in a basic H shape, with two long hallways, and three short ones going across. Just like a four on the floor. Easy enough. But there was a little hallway, jogging off to the left at the bottom of the left hand stroke of the H, and then it took a quick right. That's what it looked like to Dean as he stood at the end of it. Maybe 22B was down there? He headed down the ramp, and realized that it wasn't filled with classrooms or anything, but after the hall jogged to the right again, there was the band room and nothing else. A dead end. Right across from the band room was a door with a sign above it that said Boiler Room. Dean turned around to go. He wasn't taking band. Never had. Never would.

"What are you doing there, son?"

There was a man there. He had come from the Boiler Room and was closing the door behind him and locking it. His streaky white hair was cut in a buzz cut. He had a grey uniform shirt on, sturdy dark grey glasses and looked at Dean with blue eyes. He had a name tag that said _Gunnarson_. Dean realized he must be the janitor.

"Uh," he said. "I'm-" He was about to say he was lost but a Winchester never admitted it, even if it was true. "I'm looking for 22B." He held out his slip of paper with his schedule on it.

"Shouldn't you know where that is by now?"

"I, well, this is my first day."

The janitor looked at him. "What's wrong with your pants?"

"My pants?" Dean looked down at his jeans. The hems were ragged with strings, and the knee on the right leg was going to need a patch soon. But that was normal.

"No, I mean in the back. Turn around."

Not thinking, Dean did as he was told. A hand cupped around the back of his neck and pushed him up against the wall. It took him a minute to catch his breath and by that time, he felt the janitor's hand cupping his buttocks.

"You've got patches and holes," said the janitor.

Dean gulped. Was there a rule against patched pants? Had the patch he put in worn away to a hole already?

Then he felt the janitor's fingers pushing through the cloth, reaching forward to rub up between his legs, fumbling forward until he could feel them on the back of his balls. There was a tearing sound as the cloth of the seat of his pants gave. His forehead grew hot and slick and slipped on the coolness of the tiled wall. The janitor's fingers stroked him there, right up there where his flesh was damp and personal, and then withdrew. Dean shivered.

"You better get those pants fixed, son."

Dean stayed where he was, pressed against the wall, while the sound of footsteps walked away. He let his hands drop to his sides, let the notebook and the pen fall to the floor. Then he took off his flannel shirt and tied it around his waist. Picking up his notebook and pen, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. There was the bell. And he still didn't know where room 22B was. By the time he found it, across from the library in the second hallway going across the H, he was late. Late enough to be written up by the English teacher, who looked old enough to have written every book there ever was. Even the Bible.

After English was math and then lunch, but when Dean reached into his pocket, he realized there was a hole at the bottom of it, and that he'd lost his dollar. Instead of getting in line with the other kids, or sitting at a table with nothing to eat, he walked past the cafeteria and went outside. For a moment he stood there, letting the wintery sun warm the odd iciness inside him. Then he sat on the steps and leaned against the red brick wall by the side of the stairs. Some kid was doing stunts on his bike, and a sandwich fell out of his bag just as his rear tire went over it.

"You can eat that, kid," he said, and then sprinted away, peddling hard.

Dean looked around. No one was looking. He picked up the sandwich and undid the plastic bag. It was a tuna sandwich with cheese. Not his favorite, but he ate it with both hands, not bothering to take the sandwich out of the bag. He even sucked down the squashed bits, which were almost liquid in his mouth even before he began to chew. His stomach thanked him and he burped into the back of his hand as he wiped his mouth. Then he wiped his hands on his jeans.

The rip in the seat of his pants was feeling the cold of the cement beneath him; the noonday sun was not enough to really warm anything, but it was bright, and Dean turned up his face into it. If he dared, he'd jump ship and go on home. It was only a mile. But he had to stay. The van would be bringing Sammy from his elementary school at 3:30 and Dean had been told to meet the van. To walk Sammy home. No exceptions. Dad's face and voice had been serious, and while Dean knew that Sammy could very well have handled the mile walk, the old rule still applied: Never let Sammy out of your sight.

The afternoon went slow, except for geography. His teacher, Mr. Collins wore a red tie and smiled at him as he gave Dean an almost-new book. "We're learning about Russia," Mr. Collins said, and then flipped the book open to show the maps inside. Dean nodded, thinking that Sam would enjoy looking at the maps and charts. Besides geography was something he'd need to know for hunting. He nodded at Mr. Collins.

After that, Dean sat through social studies and art, wondering why he felt lightheaded. Maybe the kid's mom had done something to the tuna. Some dope she'd added to keep the kid under control. He'd looked pretty hot and wild on that bike. Maybe he was a handful at home.

At 3:10, school was out. Dean went to his locker and got his coat, put his notebook and pen on the shelf next to the books he'd been given that day, and then closed the locker. He spun the lock; there was no homework for him, even if there was any, because he wasn't doing it. He went to the front of the school to wait for the van. The school that could take Sammy was in the right busing district, but the bus couldn't very well take him to an empty house, so, along with other kids like him, a van took him from his school to Dean's. The plan was they would walk home together, every day. Which meant no extra activities for Dean, but that was fine by him. Pounding a basketball indoors while some guy in dumb shorts blew a whistle and shouted at him was not his idea of a good time. Track, which he liked, or baseball, wasn't till later in the year. As for anything else? No way.

He sat on the sidewalk, his feet in the gutter, staring out at the parking lot, watching moms and dads come and go, watched kids shrieking as they got on their buses, and thought about what time it was. He didn't know what time it was and his butt was getting cold. Then he stood up, and saw the janitor at the front door. He was talking to another man with brown hair and a brown suit; Dean guessed he was a teacher or something. He was nodding to the parents, frowning at the kids when no parent was looking. Maybe he was the principal; he and the janitor looked out at the sea of kids. Dean licked his lips and then looked away. His plan was to avoid the janitor in future.

A ratty white van pulled into the parking lot and before it came to a complete stop, Sammy jumped out, coat unzipped, mittens on strings flying out of his coat sleeves. He had a little plastic sack with his stuff in it. He was hatless, though, his dark hair flying out of his eyes as he raced over to Dean.

"Where's your hat?" said Dean. Sam's ears were red.

"Some kid," said Sammy, shrugging. "Stole it." Then Sam smiled. Wagged his arms to make the mittens flop up and down. "He tried to get the mittens too, but couldn't."

"Christ, Sammy," said Dean. But Sammy looked up at him through his mop of bangs, and Dean didn't have it in him to get really mad. They'd get another hat. The weather was sunny enough. Maybe it would stay that way for a while. "Let's go."

Giving Sammy's coat a tug, Dean led the way across the edge of the parking lot and out onto the side of the road. Slush was melting under their feet, but now that it was after 3:30, the sun was going low to the mountains. The air was getting snappy with cold. A mile would take them 20 minutes, maybe. It would be okay.

Over his shoulder, as he pushed Sammy ahead of him towards the intersection, he looked back. The janitor was gone, and the principal was still standing there.

Dean turned back around. "Let's hustle, Sammy."

"I want tuna fish for dinner," Sammy said.

"No," said Dean. "Tomato soup. It's hot. I want hot."

"Okay," said Sammy, kicking his feet through piles of fast-freezing slush.

When they got to the corner of Cherryvale and Baseline, Dean socked Sam in the arm. "Quit it. You're getting wet. Your shoes will never dry."

They hurried along Cherryvale and then up the other leg of Baseline, and by that time, they were both soaked to the knee. It was getting dark by the time they got to the narrow white trailer by the side of the road. They were frozen as they walked up the driveway, which was unshoveled and unmarked except for the wheel marks left by the Impala.

Dean scrambled in his pocket for the key, which was on a string around his neck, and opened the door. "Hurry up, dork," he said. "Stomp your feet on the step, don't trample snow in."

"Nag," said Sammy, doing as he was told. His lips were blue, and Dean could not believe that some asshole had taken a little kid's hat like that. Some sixth grader who thought he was hot shit, no doubt. Five minutes alone with Dean could teach him the error of his ways.

The trailer was old. It had probably been old when it was built. But it was big enough, bigger than some motel rooms, for all it was so narrow. There was a bedroom at the front, which was Dad's in case he had to come or go at weird hours, and a bedroom at the back, near the bathroom, in case Sammy got sick and had to throw up. In the middle was a living room that flowed into a tiny kitchen. The furniture was scarred and cheap, but the couch was huge and there was an armchair with an ottoman. Like the empire, Dad had said. Nothing matched. The carpet had cigarette burns, and there was a stain on the carpet that none of them could identify.

Dean made Sam drape his coat over a chair in the kitchen and had him take off his shoes and socks, and put the shoes upside down on the heating vent to dry. He did the same with his own coat and shoes, while Sammy followed him around, patting his own tummy, demanding to be fed, eyes sparkling as he annoyed Dean by not saying it outright.

"Look," he said, giving Sammy a shove. "I'll start something to eat. Just go watch TV or something."

"I'm cold," said Sammy, going over to throw himself on the couch.

Dean chewed on his lower lip. The last thing Dad would appreciate was Sammy getting a cold. Not when the school and the van and everything had been set up so nicely so that Dad could work a couple of jobs in the area. He checked the thermostat. It was up to 70, as high as Dad said it should go. Then Dean went into the back room, and unplugged the space heater that sat next to their double bed. He carried it out to the living room, plugged it in and set it down in front of Sammy. He turned it on, watched the bars glow orange.

"Okay?"

"Yeah." Sammy looked up at him, and pulled his writing tablet from the plastic sack on the floor. Then he said, "I lost my crayons today, too." He dipped his head between his shoulders. Under ordinary circumstances, both of them knew that carelessness to get your hat stolen and loose your new crayons on the same day would call for some serious trouble. Dean smiled. He would save the day.

He went to his coat and pulled out the crayons. The edge of the box was a little damp, but they were all there. He put them under his nose and smelled. "Such a terrific little box," he said.

Sammy leaped up from the couch to grab them. "Dean, Dean!"

Dean smiled. Sammy danced his way back to the couch and settled himself in to color in his notebook, pretending to be a great and famous artist. Dean turned to the kitchen and hunted down the cans of tomato soup. Was there milk to make it with? Yes. They were well stocked. At least for now.

"Grilled cheese, too, Sammy?" he asked.

"Yeah!"

Dean nodded. Grilled cheese it was.

*

 __

 _No._

 _He thought it. Tried to say it._

 _No. Don't do that. Don't do that to me._

 _It was too late. He could feel the hands on him, fingers slipping between his legs, stroking the flesh behind his balls. The hand wanted to do more. He knew it._

 _No._

He sat up. The covers slipped from him, and he almost couldn't breathe. The TV was on in the other room; he could see the light, hear the low sound. People laughing. A talk show. Dad. Come home from a hunt, or maybe the bar, or maybe the library. There was a clock on the wooden chair by the bed. It said 2 am. It was set to 7 am, so Dean could get them both up and meet the bus with Sammy before he walked to school by 8:10. And as for nightmares, there was nothing Dad could do anyway. He was a big boy. It was just a dream.

Beside him, as he lay down, Sammy stirred, and curled in closer. Even with three blankets over them, the furnace never did much good. The space heater was still out by the TV, but Dean didn't want to get up and get it. That would alert Dad to the fact that Dean was awake, and Dad would want to know why. It was nothing.

"'ean?" asked Sammy. Sam's monkey-light hand patted him on the shoulder. Sammy had his share of bad dreams, it seemed he could recognize when Dean was having one. "S'okay, now. Sleep." The little hand touched Dean's face before falling back on the pillow. Dean turned and curved his arm around Sammy's shoulder, tucked Sam's dark head under his chin. Made himself breathe slowly in and out. Breathed in Sammy's clean soap scent. Closed his eyes against the darkness. Willed sleep to come.

 

 ****

 **Thursday, January 9th, 1992**

The next day Dean found out that homework was definitely a big fat deal at Nevin Platt. The teachers in all his morning classes scowled at him for not having anything to hand in; even in gym, he got yelled at for not having the right footwear or uniform. When he told them he was still new, they tapped their respective pens or pencils on the edge of teacher desks and lectured on responsibility. Told him to stay on top of it or he would fall behind, and then where would that take him? Not very far, young man. Dean shrugged. He didn't care.

At lunchtime, he felt in his pocket for his dollar and thought about what he would eat. But as he got to the glass windows that looked in on the lunchroom, he stopped. Mr. Gunnarson was over by the head of the line where the kids were waiting to go through and get their trays and food. He was smiling and patted one boy on the head; he looked across the sea of round tables as he did this, like he was checking the place out. Like he was looking for something. Dean slowly backed away and told himself he wasn't hungry.

He waited outside in the sunshine and the brisk wind without his coat, thinking that in a little while Gunnarson would be gone. But by the time the bell rang for his next class, the lunchroom was closed up and a lady janitor was already cleaning the tables. His stomach growled as he walked to geography, where even Mr. Collins, in his purple tie, made a comment over the lack of homework.

But, unlike his other teachers, Mr. Collins was nice about it and smiled at him. "Don't you want to know where Timbuktu is?" he asked. "That's where you can find Tasmanian devils. Like on the Road Runner cartoon?" Yeah, Dean wanted to know that. He might have to go there for a hunt some day. When he was big. "Okay," he said. He'd do his homework. He nodded at Mr. Collins.

When school let out at 3:10, Dean scurried from his art class down the right-hand of the H, and cut across the middle hallway. He stopped at his locker to drop off half of his books. He kept the geography one, the math one, and the English book, and figured he needed a backpack or something, like all the other kids had. Then he locked the locker.

On his way down the left-hand of the H, he passed the little hallway that jigged to the right, where you couldn't see the dead end. All of a sudden, without even looking, he could see the dark-booted foot and the grey-slacked legs of the janitor coming around the corner. Dean's heart gave a little jump and he made himself not run. He hurried down the hall to the entrance of the school, as fast as he could without running.

Once through the front door, books clasped to his chest, he skirted to the edge of the sidewalk, not quite knowing what he was doing. Going over his books and his homework in his mind. Math, first ten problems. Geography, read the chapter on Russia. English, spelling words. Easy peasy. Sam needed a hat. He needed a backpack. They would have spaghetti for dinner, unless Sam wanted chili and corn chips.

His brain was rattled for things to think of, and then Joel Booth walked up to him, saying something random about kids who were too poor to get the right gear, kids who looked funny in their stupid wool coats, kids who didn't have proper shoes. Dean ignored him. After all, he knew a real monster when he saw one and Joel was just a creep.

By the time the 3:30 van arrived, he almost ran at Sammy and hustled them both down the street. When they got to the trailer, the clouds had blocked out the sunset and the Impala was in the driveway. Sammy shrieked and ran up the stairs, flinging it open to race in without knocking the snow from his feet. By the time Dean climbed the steps, Dad was helping Sammy off with his coat, brushing his hand over Sammy's head.

"Where's his hat?" he asked, looking at Dean.

"Some kid stole it," said Dean. "Yesterday. And I need shorts for gym. And something for my books."

For a moment Dad was still, frowning a little, scratching his chin. He looked at Dean, and Dean looked back, staying steady. A Winchester didn't ask for something he didn't really need.

"Keep your coat on then. We'll pick that up, if you need it. McDonalds?"

Sammy did a dance of glee as Dad helped him back on with his coat. Dean put his books on the table and took Sammy's plastic bag and laid that down too.

"It doesn't have to be fancy, Dad," said Dean, buttoning his coat up.

"I know," said Dad. "But if the army surplus store is still open, we can get you both something."

The army surplus store was down on Pearl Street and had everything. Dad was quick; Dean trailed after him, keeping a tug on Sam's coat so he wouldn't wander off in the mystery and magic that was the army surplus store. There were rows and rows of closely packed bits of anything a hunter might need. Or a hunter's boys. Dad got them two grey, canvas messenger bags, a new pair of sneakers for Dean, and shorts for gym class.

"Wear a t-shirt with that, son," said Dad, as they stood in line for the cash register. "And if that's not enough, I'll give you a note to sit it out."

Dean nodded. He could forge his own notes pretty well, but it was always easier if Dad just wrote them himself.

After, they drove through the slushy streets to the McDonalds, which was next to a 7-11, on Baseline. As they went in, Dad gave them the look, the one that told them to mind themselves, but it was almost a lost cause. Sammy couldn't stand still in line in anticipation of the French fries, and danced about, bumping into people until Dad chuffed him upside the head and told Dean to watch him. When they got their tray of food, they slid into one of the orange booths, and found out that as a treat, Dad had gotten them both fruit pies. Dean had the apple of course, and Sam got the cherry one. Sammy got half his pie on his face, and Dean burned his tongue on the filling, but the shakes were cool, and the fries salty. It was the perfect meal; he hadn't known he was starving until they sat down to eat.

Then Dad drove them back to the trailer. They trundled from the Impala, up the metal steps, and stomped their feet to remove the snow. As Dean laid their coats on the back of chairs, Dad sat on the couch to unlace his boots.

"We okay on supplies, Dean?" he asked.

"Yes, Dad," said Dean, toeing off his sneakers.

"Well, I'm leaving in the morning. Take this twenty, if you need anything."

"What are you hunting?" asked Dean, taking the money and going directly to put it in the coffee tin by the sugar.

"I dunno," said Dad. He stood up to put the boots by the door. "Some kind of phantom; I'll find out when I get there. You got homework?"

"Some," said Dean, trying not to squirm. He'd been hoping to get out of it, but alas, no.

"You and Sammy, then. Homework. Then bed. You hear me, Sammy?"

"Yes, Dad," said Sam. He got up from the couch and moped his way to the table. This was a sham, Dean knew. Sam loved to do those dumb worksheets, or the reading, or writing little stories. Anything to hand in, because he knew he would always get good marks. What a dork. Dean pulled out his geography book. It seemed the least painful of his options.

*

 __

 _It was like a getaway chase game, only he was the one being chased. His heart thumped like birds trying to get free. He ran down the halls._

 _  
Someone was around the corner. Waiting. Dark and still._

 _Something jumped out at him, he hadn't seen it coming._

 _There were hands on him. Hard, like the claws of a wendigo Dad had shown him once. Exactly like that._

 _  
They reached. They were fast. They got him._

"Dean?"

When he heard Sam's voice, he woke up. He could feel sweat pooling in the creases of his neck even as a cold draft came down from the window over their heads. His throat felt thick, like someone had stuffed a fist in there, and he reached up to wipe the sweat away, to ease his breathing. Then he tried to stay still, like he wasn't awake, but Sam tapped him and then butted his warm head against Dean's arm.

  
"Dean," he said again. Sleeping. Already falling back asleep.

Dean listened as Sam's breathing slowed and quieted back down. Swallowing, he waited till his heartbeat evened out and the shadows in the room felt comfortable. Even the cool air stirring around his ears felt good. Everything was okay now. He was okay. It had just been a dream. Everybody had those.

 

 ****

 **Friday, January 10, 1992**

They ate cereal at the table, which felt a little big without Dad there. Dean hoped Sam wouldn't say anything about it.

"C'mon, eat up," Dean said, "and I'll give you a dollar for lunch."

"Don't need a dollar," said Sammy through a full mouth, wiggling on his chair.

"Why not, didn't you eat?"

"I had lunch," said Sammy, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. "It was only 55 cents, so I've been keeping the rest." He looked at Dean. "I wanna buy candy with it."

It was part confession, part consultation. If Dean didn't give him another dollar, he could give him ten cents, enough to buy lunch, and Sam would get no candy. The decision was Dean's.

"Thought lunch was a dollar at your school," Dean said. "That's what I told Dad."

Confession and consultation on his part, too. If Sammy decided to be horribly honest, Dean would have to as well. He still had the dollar from the day before.

They looked at each other. Then Sammy shrugged and looked up at Dean, cocking his head to the side. "Candy? We could split it."

Dean nodded. "Candy. We could walk to the 7-11 when we have enough."

That done, Dean jerked his head over his shoulder and began cleaning up from breakfast. Took his bowl and Sam's and rinsed them in the sink.

"You gotta catch the bus," said Dean, looking at the clock. "Hurry, or I'll be the one who gets it if you miss it." If Sam missed the bus, there was no way he could get to school, and no way Dean could leave him at home alone. It would be all kinds of messy when Dad found out.

Sam hurried. Dean hurried too. He had on his other jeans, the ones without the holes in the seat of the pants, and a clean shirt. He tucked a dollar from the jar in his pocket and slipped on his coat. He grabbed his new school bag, packed it with his books and notebook. He made sure that Sammy was zipped up, had his bag too, and gave him a dollar, and walked outside to wait with him by the side of the road in the icy, blue air till the yellow bus came.

"See you at 3:30," he said, not hugging Sammy. Not touching him. Sammy didn't need that kid stuff anymore.

As Sam's bus pulled away, Dean walked along Baseline road towards the school, the slush from the night before now frozen spikes beneath his sneakered feet. He realized he'd forgotten his new gym shorts and sneakers, but never mind. He was still the new kid, and the excuse of being overwhelmed by the newness of it all was still good for a few days yet. He'd done his geography homework, had glanced at the English spelling words enough to be able to fake it. Screw math. He could do that in his head. In his sleep, even.

At the corner of Baseline and Cherryvale, he stopped to check for his dollar. Still there. Then he hoofed it across the street when someone stopped at the stop sign and headed towards the other leg of Baseline. Some screwball had spilt the street in two; Dad had said something about it being on one of the actual lines of latitude, which could be pretty cool, if he had any idea what it meant. He'd ask Mr. Collins about it. He seemed the type to like questions like that.

Then he walked up Baseline, joining the babble of kids at the crosswalk, the sea of blue and red and green down coats. Dean felt cold in his wool pea coat, unbuttoned, but reckoned it would help make him tough. He had no hat or scarf or mittens like the other kids had. Sometimes hunters had to go without shoes, even. Or eating. Or sleeping. You always had to be on the alert. When he was allowed to go on a hunt, he would be tough. He wouldn't be soft. He would be ready.

Nevin Platt rose up, red brick against the hard, clear sky. There were buses in the parking lot, teacher's cars, people walking towards the front door. Dean felt something vacant and empty slip inside of his head. That was okay. All he had to do was make it to his first class. What was his first class, anyway? By the time he got to the front door, his heart was pounding. He didn't have his slip of paper; it was in his other pants. The pants with the holes. Or more holes. These ones, the ones he had on, were a little worn on one knee. He hoped it wouldn't attract any attention.

Hefting his messenger bag, he looped it over his head sideways so it lay across his chest and rested his hand along the top. Then he opened the door. Science. He had science. Science classes were in the middle corridor going across. He could head straight up the left hand side of the H, or he could go along the front corridor and head up the right hand side of the H. Yeah. There would be fewer kids on that side of the building, away from the band rooms and the auditorium. He started walking. Heart thudding, and he really didn't know why.

*

During geography, Mr. Collins was cool. They were talking about the Soviet Union, and Mr. Collins, wearing a green tie, had handed out study sheets for next week's test, and then asked if there were any questions.

Dean, sitting in the back of the room, had raised his hand. Not something he normally would do, not after Dad's instructions of head down, no trouble, no attention. But he couldn't resist.

"Yes, Dean," said Mr. Collins, pointing at him as he walked between the rows of desks.

"This ain't to do with the Soviet Union," he said, feeling his mouth go a little dry as everyone turned to look at him. "But I got a question.

"Yes, Dean, go ahead."

"Um, my Dad says that Baseline Road is on a latitude. What does that mean?"

"Well, now." Mr. Collins settled a hip on the edge of his desk. "That's a very good question. Can anyone answer Dean?"

The entire class was totally silent. No one had any idea what he was talking about.

"Okay, then, here's your answer. Remember when we talked about longitude and latitude and how they marked space and time on the globe?"

Everyone around Dean nodded, and Dean nodded too.

"Well, Baseline Road sits exactly on top of the north 40th parallel, which, as you all know, you can see on any globe."

"Any globe?" asked someone in front of the room.

"Any. Here, take a look." Mr. Collins went over to the table near the windows and picked up the globe. Spun it around, and traced his finger along a dark black line. "It's pretty specific and very clear. This line goes round the world, and we're a part of it."

There was a general sigh of appreciation from the class and then Mr. Collins nodded at Dean. "Great question, Dean. Bonus points for you." He went back up front and put the globe away.

The bell rang.

"Okay, finish the chapter on the Soviet Union and start reviewing the study sheets I just gave you. Test on Monday."

Dean tucked the sheet in his bag, and then stood up. He had two more classes, just social studies and art. They were both in the topmost corridor; he could easily hurry up the left hand side of the H. Hurry. Keep to the wall. It would be okay.

 

 ****

 **Thursday, November 23 rd, 2006 - Thanksgiving Day**

Getting Dean up in the morning was as hard as he remembered getting Dad up after Dad had hit the bottle too hard because it was the wrong time of year, or the right time or whatever. Not that it happened very often, but when it did, the memory was as clear as a punch to the jaw. And Dean liked to sleep in, yes, that was true, it always had been. He was a night owl or an alley cat, and it was after the sun went down that he came to life.

Nine o'clock had come and gone by the time Sam went to eat breakfast. The Buff Restaurant was a little diner attached to the motel. It had the usual booths and tables, and a sunroom with tables along the window. Sam sat in the sunshine and drank over-sugared coffee that tasted of burnt orange rinds and looked over Phil's notes. The eggs were good and fresh, though, and the butter real. That made up for it. He'd wanted to take a donut or something back to the room, a danish even, but the kitchen had been flat out, he was told, half an hour before he'd gotten there. Try again tomorrow. When he got back to the room, Sam had to resort to kicking the bed Dean slept in.

"Don't," said Dean, into his pillow. He rolled over, half-awake, the back of his hair standing straight up as if it had been glued that way. "Don't you ever."

Sam tried not to loom. He wished he had a bag of something to shake at Dean, something sweet to keep him at bay. Always best, when older brother was like this, to distract him with pastries. "C'mon, Dean, this is an easy one. The sooner we're done, the sooner we're-"

"Easy?" asked Dean, scrubbing his right eye with the heel of his palm. "Why are you so sure, we haven't even started."

Shrugging off his coat, now that he was in the warm, dry air of the motel room, Sam moved to the little table next to the window, his fingers reaching out to his laptop, Dad's journal. He put down the crisp pad of paper and the new pen he'd bought himself last week and stacked Phil's notes on top of that. "It seems pretty obvious to me. Some ghost is haunting the school for some reason. I looked at Phil's notes, and they're-"

"Amateur stuff, right?"

Sam sat in the chair, leaning into the curved back. He pretended to be very interested in what his laptop was doing at the moment, which was sleeping, so as not to let it fly in Dean's direction everything he was not saying. "Not really. He didn't know what he was seeing, but he was pretty systematic about it all. Each night new marks, new things disrupted and opened. But, he says at the end of the third month, he began to realize that there was no permanent damage. Funny, for a ghost, huh? Like it was being careful or something."

Dean sat up, like Sam knew he would. There wasn't a puzzle in the world that Dean could resist, and in particular, Sam's making it sound like the whole deal was already solved was enough to make him edgy and determined to prove that they would be better off if they solved this gig together. As they had all the other gigs. As they would, Sam presumed, solve all the gigs to come.

Looking at his feet, Dean sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers curving into the rumpled counterpane so hard they disappeared. "I need a shower," he said. Then he looked up, and it was then Sam noticed the circles under his eyes, as though the sleep Dean had gotten had worn him out rather than done him any good. "After that," continued Dean, as if unaware of Sam looking at him so hard, "what do you want to do?"

"EMF readings," said Sam. That much was obvious. Plus, according to Phil, when they went into the school, they would find evidence of the ghost having been there. "Far as I know, no one has ever been hurt by this ghost-"

"Or as yet unknown entity," said Dean, standing. Butting in.

"Or entity," said Sam, nodding. He watched Dean strip out of his t-shirt as he walked into the bathroom. Watched the door close, heard the shower going on. Maybe he should have listened to Dean when he'd half-complained about not wanting to come to Boulder. The last time the Winchesters had lived there, Dean had caught a cold pretty much early on and it had not left him until they had left the area. Maybe the thin air didn't agree with him, which didn't make any sense, since Manning had not had the same effect on him and was even higher in elevation. Maybe it was the time of year, maybe it was nothing.

*

They pulled into the now-empty parking lot of Nevin Platt. A bit of wind whisked at their feet, carrying hard bits of snow. As they walked up to the front door, the edge of the roof seemed to loom at them against the clear blue sky. He couldn't remember his own school, but he could remember meeting Dean here under the same sky. It'd been cold then as well, but for some reason, Dean's pea coat had always been unbuttoned, yet at the same time, he'd fussed at Sam to keep his jacket zipped up on the walks home. Where was the trailer they'd lived in anyway? For some reason, he couldn't place it on the map in his memory.

"I remember," said Sam, as he watched Dean unlock the front door, "it being the shortest semester on record that you went here."

"What's that?" Dean asked above the loud alarm beeps as he strode to the alarm pad and punched in the seven numbers that Phil had given them. The pad gave a small beep and then stopped. "What?"

"You went to school here; I went to elementary school down the road. We were here, what, three weeks before something lit a fire under Dad and we were out of here."

"Don't get started, Sam," said Dean. He put the piece of paper with the alarm numbers on it in his shirt pocket. He had to reach under his leather jacket to his flannel shirt to do this, and it occurred to Sam how many layers Dean was wearing. Leather jacket, fleece vest, flannel t-shirt, thermal underwear. It was cold, but not that cold. "Don't get started about Dad. Not today. You were in elementary school, you didn't miss anything important."

"I'm not complaining," said Sam, feeling the last of his hold on his temper slipping. He waited a minute, Dean's eyes glittering at him from that pale face. "I just said it was short, is all."

Dean's jaw worked. Then he turned on his heel and pulled the EMF from his jacket pocket. He held it in one hand and turned it on, and then waved to Sam to come along. Together they walked up the left hand side of the H. As soon as they passed the auditorium, the meter went off, that low buzzing whine sending a familiar shock up Sam's spine. Bingo. He never could understand why it still got to him when Dean's homemade meter would make that sound. He should be used to it.

"Look," he said, tapping Dean on the shoulder.

They looked up the hallway at the shining floors, the bank of lockers completely open, with kid's stuff falling out, and Sam could see a row of black X's near the ceiling.

"Something opened them," said Dean.

"And no kid could have gotten up there to make those marks."

They walked closer, and the hallway was so quiet, Sam could hear Dean's breathing, the creak of the leather of his jacket. When they got to the open bank of lockers, they were in front of the library, the bank of glass letting them see in to the half-lit room, with rows of books under a very high ceiling. The X's, along the opposite wall, were about the size of a man's palm, each neatly in the center of the polished brick, and above every locker that had been opened. 25 in all.

Dean tilted his head back to look up at them, and then scratched the back of his head. He looked at Sam. "We should keep track of where the X's show up," he said.

"We need to clean them off; Phil's got some sort of cleanser that will work-"

The expression on Dean's face stopped him. There was a little gleam there, the twitch of an eyebrow, and a small little nod that told Sam that Dean had just figured something out, all in his head, just standing there. Figured out something it would have taken Sam, or John, even, pieces of paper, charts, graphs, just to see the pattern.

"We should leave the marks," he said, "till we figure out what they're for."

"How is leaving them-" Sam began, then he snapped his mouth shut. Dean already knew that.

"We leave them so we can see the pattern of where they show up. If we can compare that to where they don't show up then-"

"We can maybe figure out why." Sam nodded. "Phil washed them off religiously. Every day, according to his notes." Sam wanted to mention that the notes were available at any time for Dean's perusal, but he didn't. Notes were fine and Dean could unlock the mysteries of a pie chart as fast as the next man. But he much preferred to see the evidence with his own naked eye and could grasp what it meant as easily as he could pick up a fork.

"It'll mean cleaning them all off after," said Dean, "but hell, we've pulled all-nighters before."

"If this is the average number of X's," said Sam, chewing on his thumb, "around 25, for six months, that's 180 days times-"

"Lots and lots, Sam," said Dean.

"Four thousand, five hundred," finished Sam.

"Thanks, Spock," said Dean.

"Shut up, Kirk," said Sam, now smiling.

Dean waved the EMF to point up the hallway. "Let's cover the rest of the school, and then get out of here.

"We could go eat lunch, you know," said Sam, falling in at Dean's side as they walked up the ramp towards the top of the school. "You didn't eat this morning."

"I'm good," Dean said to this, his head bent over the meter. "Not hungry now anyhow."

They circled the whole school. The only place the meter went off was in front of the Auditorium.

"No," said Sam, reaching out to grab the EMF. Dean pulled it out of reach. "I think it's the hallway, point it this way."

"I'll point it," said Dean. "You make an EMF, _you_ get to point it. Otherwise, keep your hands off."

Sam didn't let himself snort at this and kept his hands at his sides, however much they might want to strangle. The EMF kept shrieking at them as they went down the little side corridor, and Dean kept walking, holding it in front of him. The passage was cold and the air seemed sharp, and Sam was about to open his mouth and say _ghost, I told you so_ , when Dean stopped. Right in front of the door leading to the boiler room and the janitor's office.

"Is that where it goes?" asked Sam.

"Do we have the keys?" asked Dean. He lowered the volume on the EMF, and, without looking at Sam, tucked his chin into his shoulder, like he was stretching a muscle.

"Yeah," said Sam. "All the ones Phil gave me. They're all marked. Hang on."

Sam dug in his pocket and pulled out the ring of keys. There weren't many; the school had master locks, Phil had said, so as to keep the number of keys down. It apparently was an improvement on the way things had been done when Blake was there. Seven keys. Sam twirled them on the ring in his hand. He found the one labeled Boiler and unlocked the door. When he opened the door, Dean stepped back, and Sam felt the cold, dank air rush out at him. Just like it had the day before, as if the rooms below hadn't been opened for years and years instead of just a day. He reached in to flip on the light. It fluttered yellow for a minute before coming on with full strength.

"What is it with ghosts and basements?" asked Sam, turning to share the joke with Dean.

Dean was right behind him, holding the EMF with one hand, holding his jacket closed with the other.

"You cold?" Sam asked.

"Maybe coming down with something."

"You look it," said Sam. "We'll check out the boiler room and then go get lunch. After all, it is a holiday."

"Uh-huh," said Dean.

Sam led the way down the stairs single file, hearing the small squeal of the EMF and Dean's footsteps behind him on the metal stairs. They walked down the narrow passage, the cement wall on one side, the row of boilers and their pipes and lights on the other till they reached the battered doorway of the janitor's office. The EMF burst into a cackle and as Sam looked down, the red bar pressed all the way to the right.

Dean clicked the EMF off. "This is where it is," he said, his voice thick. "Whatever it is."

Sam opened the door. Flipped on the light, and took in the office, which was as dusty as it had been the day before. The gloom was offset only by the light coming in through the bank of frosted windows. In the silence, the clock, a round, functional throwback from the fifties, ticked loudly. Water dripped along a long, rust-colored stain in the corner sink, and the pipes along the wall rose to bend and disappear into the murk of the ceiling.

"This is where the EMF leads us," said Sam, stepping into the room. It was not as cold in here as it was in the corridor, though the air was still as murky, and the odor of lemon-lime cleanser was potent. "Shit, that's strong," he said looking for the source. But besides the closet full of light bulbs and the shelves of tools and boxes of dry supplies, there was nothing that looked as though it should smell of lemons or limes.

Off to the left of the door, by the pipes, was a small dark opening, as tall as the ceiling.

"What's in there, I wonder," he said, almost to himself. He moved to go over to it when he felt Dean's hand on his sleeve.

"Just a crawlspace," said Dean. "Under the auditorium, behind the boilers."

"Oh," said Sam, nodding. The passage way didn't look very wide. "Wait. How do you know?"

For a moment there was silence, then he turned to look at Dean who was clutching the EMF to him like a talisman.

"Uh," said Dean. His mouth worked for a minute. "Well, I went to school here, so I think maybe I just knew that."

This made sense to Sam. Dean had a mind full of odd factoids, and he could never explain how he had come by them. Sam nodded and looked around the room, thinking if he kept looking hard enough, he'd find the source of that smell. "Okay, so...we've located the source. Let's put the stuff back in the lockers at least, leave the marks, and go get something to eat."

"Sounds like a plan," said Dean. He was already walking out the door, holding the EMF close. If he'd been any other person besides who he was, Sam would have said that he was running. As it was, it look Sam several long-legged strides to catch up and keep up as Dean raced up the stairs, where he stood, holding the door open. He closed it behind Sam when Sam got to the top. "You going to lock it?" he asked.

"What's the point?" asked Sam in return. "There's no kids around, and the front door is locked.

"You should lock it."

There was a pause and it was in his mouth to ask why it was so important but the curve to Dean's mouth stopped him. Or rather the lack of it. Dean's mouth was flat, and his chin was tucking down to his shoulder, and he seemed to be trying to catch his breath as he looked at Sam. There was something in his expression, as though he'd rammed up against something hard and was just now feeling the painful effects.

"Okay," he said. Sam reached into his pocket and locked the door as fast as he could. As they put stuff back into lockers as neatly as they could and shut the metal doors, something in the back of his brain started moving around ages ago, as if rearranging furniture, but he'd ignored it. He'd been distracted by the hunt, but now the look on Dean's face worried him. It couldn't just be that Dean was hungry.

When they finished, he tried that first anyway.

"So," he said, putting the ring back in his pocket and jerking his chin towards the front of the school. "I think either Applebee's or Chili's is open, your call."

"Urg," said Dean. "I hate those places."

They walked, shoulder to shoulder, their footsteps loud in the empty spaces.

"It _is_ Thanksgiving," said Sam. "Our options are limited, you realize."

Dean sighed as he set the alarm, frowning as they walked out the front door. He was almost muttering to himself as he locked up and tested the door with a heft of his hand.

"Or," said Sam, pushing his fists into the pockets of his jacket as he leaned into the wind. "Seeing as this is Boulder, there might be a Chinese restaurant in town that's open today."

They both squinted against the bright sun as Dean rubbed his hands together and blew on them. He was smiling as they walked towards the Impala. "Pork lo mein, man," he said. "I can taste it now."

If it would cheer Dean up, Sam was prepared to go anywhere, even a Chinese place that had tons of MSG in every dish.

They drove around in the cold for a bit before they found a place in Niwot that was open. It was called Fan's and even Sam could see the sign that proudly stated no MSG. He liked the way it smelled, and the small tables on the clean, linoleum floor. They ordered tons of food, but when it came, and Sam started inhaling the soup and the lemon chicken, Dean merely poked at his noodles and sauce.

"I thought you liked that," said Sam, around a mouthful.

Dean shrugged. "I'll have it later."

  
The dark look in his eyes told Sam not to pester him with questions. So Sam didn't. Dean had a right not to eat if he didn't want to. Maybe he was coming down with a cold. Maybe everything would come out in the wash.

 

 ****

 **Monday, January 13, 1992**

Gym class sucked. Out loud. Dean finally remembered to bring his new gym shorts and sneakers so that Dad wouldn't have to write a note, but while the sneakers were okay, the shorts weren't. They were the wrong kind. Not wrong in the widest sense, they were gym shorts, they were dark. But they were the kind that guys wore in the army, not the kind that kids wore in school.

It would have been all right, except for the fact that Joel Booth, the bully he'd seen on his first day, decided to take go after him. It was one of those things that happened from time to time, from school to school, and usually Dean was ready for it. Had read the brain waves or something and knew how to lay low, as ordered, how to fit in or stand out in such a way that he didn't attract any of the wrong kind of attention. But in this case, well, Joel had a nose for it, and being raised, as he must have been, without a lot of something, he seemed to set eyes on Dean and find him the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. Dean had been able to ignore the stuff from the week before, but in gym class on Monday, the barbs had become sharper, and as Dean got out of his gym shorts and into his jeans in the locker room, Joel was right there.

"Looks like we got white trash," said Joel, as if to himself.

Dean ignored him.

"Some apeshit dumb kid, wearing shorts that look like a plastic bag. Where'd you get the plastic bag, kid?"

Dean ignored him.

Joel snapped him with a damp towel, and Dean still ignored him. He managed to get dressed as fast as he could, stuffed his gym shorts in his messenger bag, and hauled his ass out of the dressing room and into the hall, headed toward English.

English classes were at the other end of the school, up towards the end of the long, left-hand hallway that ran in front of the library. Dean went to his locker and got his English book, and then went back to skirt up the right-hand hallway, and intended to duck back along the short hallway that cut across the school. He was halfway along when he heard the rattle of a garbage can on wheels, and through the bodies of teachers and kids, he saw Gunnarson. Coming. For a second, he could see it. The garbage can was empty, the rags and brooms hanging off the end of the rack attached to it were clean. Even from here, Dean could see that. The whole thing was a ruse, so that Gunnarson could look busy while he came looking. For him.

  
For a second, he thought he could just keep going, that Gunnarson hadn't spotted him, that he could use the bodies as a buffer. But his feet froze to the floor and his palms started to sweat. He clenched his hand around his book.

Then he bolted and backtracked, bumping into someone who gave him a quick, hard shove. Dean ducked under someone else's arm, walked as fast as he could. If he ran, some teacher might stop him, and that would give Gunnarson the opportunity to catch up to him. He kept to the wall, eyes smarting in the sunlight as he walked past the bank of windows, throat perfectly dry. Lungs burning rather like someone was baking him from the inside out.

By the time he got to his English class, he was almost late and the hallways were absolutely empty of kids. He heard the rattle of a garbage can on wheels, and slipped inside. Made himself take a deep breath and sit down like he wasn't sweating from beneath his armpits and along the backs of his knees and everywhere else. There was a swath of grey that passed in front of the long narrow window. Dean leaned back and watched to see if the door would open. It didn't.

The rest of the day marched forward like a dog straining on a leash, and Dean knew he couldn't go to Dad with his hat in his hand and say he had the wrong gym shorts. Not only was there not enough money, not only would Dad preferred not to be bothered about the small shit; what difference did it make anyway? Shorts were shorts, and Joel would probably soon find himself someone else to bug the shit out of. Dean was going to keep his head down, as ordered. End of story.

Joel, he belatedly realized, was in his geography class, but it was easy enough to focus on Mr. Collins and ignore Joel. It was after school was over that the trouble broke out. Dean was in front of the school, waiting for Sammy next to the row of pine trees. His stomach was growling and he had another dollar in his pocket, though he couldn't remember when or if he'd checked out the lunchroom. Joel's bus was late, or something, and there he was. Sticking his chin out, making remarks.

"Can't even afford a proper coat, can you, white trash? You know, at this school, we wear down jackets. We have sneakers without holes. We have lunch money."

"I have lunch money," said Dean, hefting his messenger bag over his head, settling it on his hip.

"Hey, I saw you," said Joel. "I saw you pick up that donut from the ground and eat it."

"It was a sandwich," said Dean, without thinking.

"Oh, you picked up a sandwich from the ground and ate it. Nice manners. Starve much? Your old man forget to feed you?"

Dean felt his jaw go forward at this. But stopped himself, watching the half-ring of kids forming around them. Remembering Dad's orders.

"None of your fucking business," he said, thinking that would stop it.

"What did you say to me? Did you say _fucking_?" Joel snarled this at him, his face bright with glee at having caught Dean saying a bad word. With witnesses.

Someone gasped, so Dean decided to up the ante.

"Fucking shit," said Dean. "If you must know. You're just a piece of fucking shit."

Joel launched himself at Dean and started punching away. Dean moved back, but Joel had him by the strap of his messenger bag, and swung him around. Dean landed in a punch to the jaw, one to the side of Joel's head. He grabbed Joel by the coat, and pulled him in close. It was a trick he'd seen Dad do when confronted with trouble in a bar. Pull the guy in close and you have him at a disadvantage. You could pop him in the stomach, snap him in the head and he won't know what hit him.

Dean did this. A snap with his elbow to Joel's stomach, and then one in the nose, and Joel was bleeding. The kids were shouting, and too late, Dean remembered Dad's orders. His stomach fell and he let go of Joel.

In an instant, the principal, Mr. Mates, in his brown suit, was upon them both, pulling them apart, and Dean sank back, his hands clutching the strap of his messenger bag. Panting. Feeling the effects of Joel's fingers on his arm, his face, mouth throbbing. Mr. Mates was scowling; the crowd was dispersing. Dean knew he was in big bad trouble. And Sam's bus hadn't even arrived yet.

"Both of you are in so much trouble," said Mr. Mates. "Detention at the very least, after school every day for a week. Or suspension, we don't allow-"

Dean's stomach now tumbled. It was worse than it was supposed to be. It wasn't the fighting so much as the trouble it caused. The attention it brought forth, and the fact that if he were in suspension or detention, he wouldn't be able to walk Sammy home from school and look after him. That's what would make Dad the maddest.

"Hey, now," said a voice, and Dean looked up. It was the janitor. Coatless, looking chilly.

"Mr. Gunnarson," said Mr. Mates. "What-can I help you?"

"What's going on here is what I want to know," said Mr. Gunnarson. "Looks like a fight."

"He started it," said Joel. Pointing at Dean. No one refuted him.

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Mr. Gunnarson. "I saw you start the whole thing, Booth."

"Dean Winchester, is that true?"

Both men were now looking at him, and now he felt as though it was him that had been smashed in the nose, not Joel.

"You know better-" started Mr. Mates.

"And you know better, Bob," said Mr. Gunnarson. "Kids don't tell on each other. Besides, I saw the whole thing."

"You did, Roy?"

"Yes indeed. From my windows." Gunnarson pointed. "This kid, Booth, he started it. Dean was just defending himself. You know I don't like kids, don't like to take sides, but this is a clear cut case to me."

The crowd was gone now. It was just the two men and the two boys. And the buses had come.

"Come with me Joel, I'll walk you to your bus," said Mr. Mates. "Some days, you kids-" And then he walked off.

"Let's get you cleaned up before your brother gets here," said Gunnarson, giving a tug to the strap of Dean's bag. Dean followed. His mind did a little jump and then settled into the back of his head, his feet marching as told, his hands gripping the strap, the cold air of the sidewalk replaced by the warmer air of the school. Mr. Gunnarson led him down the side hallway and then unlocked a door with his ring of keys.

"Got a sink down here, you can wash up. Otherwise, you'll look like you were in a fight. Which you were."

Dean nodded, and walked down the flight of metal steps, trying not to smell the air that reeked of mold and moisture and the sharp scent of some kind of cleanser that wasn't Pine Sol.

"I don't need to clean up," he said as they came to the bottom of the stairs. "My nose isn't bleeding."

Mr. Gunnison's hand landed on the back of his neck and pushed him forward, made him walk. "You've got dirt on your face. And you look a little white. We'll get you fixed up."

The hand pushed him into the office, and Mr. Gunnarson went to the sink that was in the corner next to the worktable and began to run it. Cold. Then he took a white cloth and rinsed it out. Came over to Dean, frozen where he stood, and wiped his face.

"Better?"

Dean nodded, looking up. Feeling suddenly hot and cold at the same time. From the bank of windows above the sink, he could see the blue of the sky, though the glass was rippled, so he couldn't see any details beyond that. It occurred to him that Mr. Gunnarson couldn't have really seen the details of the fight through those windows, and he opened his mouth to ask about it, when Mr. Gunnarson sat on the chair at his desk.

"Come here, Dean."

Dean walked forward, his mouth a little dry, his feet feeling numb. He shivered like he had a fever; wanted to button up his coat. He wanted to go back the way he had come.

"Here, Dean. I want to make sure you are alright."

This was strange, seeing as the only marks Joel had left on him had been on his arms, bruises that would rise come the morning and would soon fade away before anyone could take any notice of them. Whether Joel would ever forgive him for being bested, Dean didn't know. And he didn't care. As long as he stayed off the grid, Dad would be happy.

Mr. Gunnarson reached out to grab his arm and pulled him close until Dean was sitting on his lap, his legs between Mr. Gunnarson's legs. He felt his messenger bag hit Mr. Gunnarson's thigh, and pulled it up. Held on to it.

"I need to go," he said.

"You want to _stay_ ," said Mr. Gunnarson, his hand cupping the back of Dean's neck again. "You know you do."

"I-I don't," said Dean.

Mr. Gunnarson's other hand slipped around the front of Dean's waist, and then moved down to his crotch. Dean felt his eyebrows flip up, and his mouth drop open. It hadn't been his imagination then, the other day. Last week. Mr. Gunnarson's fingers on his balls.

"Mr. Gunnarson-" said Dean.

"Hold still, Dean. You need to hold still and be a good boy."

The janitor's hand slipped down between Dean's legs and pressed. The collar of Dean's pea coat felt rough and hot against his neck, and Mr. Gunnarson's hand was clamped hard. The hand between his legs moved around over his crotch. The heel of Mr. Gunnarson's hand moved back and forth, the strong fingers stroking him. Dean felt something harden and twitch down there, like Dad had always said it would if you did that, but that was grownup stuff. Time enough for that later. That's what Dad had said.

"Does that feel nice, Dean?"

Dean waited a second. No it didn't. His stomach was doing a strange dance, as though someone were scraping it with a spoon.

"No," he said. "N-no-"

"Hold on, Dean," said Mr. Gunnarson. "It will."

Mr. Gunnarson was breathing hard now, his face was getting dark, and Dean tucked his chin down and away so he wouldn't have to watch. It began to hurt, and suddenly Mr. Gunnarson grunted and made a little sound after that in his throat.

"You're a good boy, Dean," he said, his voice low.

"Can I go now?"

"Yes," said Mr. Gunnarson. "You go ahead and meet your brother's bus. And I'll see you later. See if you can stay out of fights with Joel, okay?"

Dean stood up, snapping his mouth shut, pulling his bag to him. His crotch felt as though it had been banged with a hammer, and Mr. Gunnarson's crotch was darkened with damp. Then he turned and walked away. He had to hurry. He'd seen the flash of orange roll off through the bank of windows. Sam's bus would be there any time. Any time. He had to hurry.

His heart fluttered as he raced through the empty school. By the time he made it through the front doors, all the buses were gone and the white van was pulling away. Sam was the only little boy standing there, just to the side of the trees. A few teachers lingered by the edge of the sidewalk, their eyes on Dean, silent but accusing him. He was late. He knew he was. He didn't let himself shrink from their looks or stumble on the roughness of the sidewalk. He stepped off it, in fact, to walk over the snow-crusted grass to where Sammy stood, his grey messenger bag slung around his neck, his coat unzipped.

"Zip up your coat, Sammy," he said, to say hello.

"Only if you button yours," said Sammy, in reply. Smiling, seeming not to mind that Dean was late, he held out his fist, holding it there till Dean held out his hand. Into it dropped a quarter and two dimes.

"For the candy," he said.

"You had lunch, then," said Dean, putting the money in his pocket.

"Yep. Fish sticks."

Dean's mouth watered. He couldn't remember what he'd had for lunch that day. Or whether or not he'd eaten. He felt his brow furrow as he thought about this.

"You all right?" asked Sam.

"What?"

"You okay? You look like someone punched you in the stomach."

"Hey," said Dean, chuffing the back of Sam's head. Light. More like skimming. "If I'd been in a fight, you would have heard about it. Right?"

Sammy nodded.

"Let's get home," said Dean, finding that he looked forward to the walk to the trailer. It was only a mile. It wasn't snowing. They'd get there before dark. "Chili," he said.

"Yeah," said Sam.

"And then we can make pudding after."

"Yeah," said Sam again, looking up through his bangs. "Chocolate."

"And if we have enough money on Saturday," he said, settling his bag over his head so the cloth strap crossed his chest, "we can walk to the 7-11. If it's not snowing."

"Yeah," said Sammy again.

Dean nodded. It would be good to go home.

 

 ****

 **Thursday, January 16, 1992**

On Thursday the walk home was flayed with snow, and when they got to the trailer, steam heat coming out of the vent at the end, the Impala was there, unannounced. The Impala had no snow on it, and the tracks from the tires looked fresh and clean. Dean led the way around the car, stomping up the metal steps to clear the snow from his sneakers, waving at Sammy to do the same before he opened the door to the warm air. Dad was on the phone, standing, boots still on, dampness tracked in, his greygreen duffle bag on the floor with his jacket on top.

"Yes, I understand, Mr. Mates, and I'll certainly check into it. Yes. Yes, that's for certain. Goodbye."

Dean froze as Dad turned around. He wanted to shrug out of his jacket, but the look in Dad's eye told him that this had been no ordinary phone conversation.

"Phantoms," said Dad, "give me less trouble than you do, boy."

For a quick second, as Sammy bumped into him from behind, Dean wondered if this was about Mr. Gunnarson, if someone had called it in and his heart leapt up in his throat. But it couldn't be because no one knew about Mr. Gunnarson, so it had to be something else.

"What is it, Dad?" asked Dean.

"Take your coat off, Dean. Both of you. And Sammy." Here Dad stopped to motion at the back trailer. "Make yourself scarce for a bit."

"But I'm not in trouble." This protest came out automatically, even as Sam was scooting around the kitchen table towards the back bedroom.

Dad gave him a mild chuff on the head as he went past. "Go anyway. I want to talk to your brother. Alone."

"But Dad," began Sam.

" _Now_ , Sam."

Sam pulled himself out of his coat and hung it on the back of a chair in the kitchen because this was not a hotel and never had been. His took his bag with him, disappearing down the short hall, where Dean could hear him flicking on the light with a click. Dean took off his coat too, but held it to his chest to cover his hammering heart.

"That was Mr. Mates. He says you've not been handing in any homework. You care to explain that one to me?"

"I've been doing my homework," said Dean, thinking back. Yes, he'd sat at the table at night, across from Sammy. He could clearly remember the geography book open in front of him.

"You have, huh."

"Yeah, Dad."

"So why haven't any of your teachers been getting it? Except for Mr. Collins, all your teachers have turned in a report, coming up blank. Seems early in the game for that sort of thing, but-"

"I have, Dad," said Dean interrupting. His heart was like a tom-tom in his chest, stomach doing a good imitation of a roller coaster. Every night he'd been working, but it was hard to prove it when the report said otherwise. Otherwise, what had he been doing every night?

"What's in your bag?"

Dean handed it over, his pea coat slipping out of his grip to tumble at his feet. He stayed motionless as Dad opened the bag and saw what was in it. Tipped the bag open so that Dean could see, as well. Just the geography book, bright and new and covered in pictures and maps of faraway places. His notebook. A pen.

"One book, Dean, is not homework. You have work due in all your classes, not just the one." Then Dad slammed the bag shut and tossed it on the couch where it lay tumbled like a distressed child.

Then Dad loomed, like a tall giant over a forest it was soon to destroy. "Your job," he said, speaking slowly, in that way he had when everything else but what he was saying was of no importance to him. "Your job is to go to school and keep your head down. Then your job is to look after Sammy when I'm not here. Two things, Dean, two _simple_ things. If you fall down on the first one, you fall down on the second. If you don't turn your work in and have to stay after school, who will walk Sammy home? I can't leave him alone."

"But, Dad-" began Dean, thinking of the books in his locker and the tests he'd taken and the pencils he'd chewed on, but for the life of him, other than sitting at the table with Sam, he couldn't remember doing any work. Worse, he couldn't remember sitting at a desk, handing anything in.

"This is not a game," said Dad. His voice was dangerously low, like gravel, one pitch away from booming into a shout. "You may not like it, but this is where we are for now, and you will do as you're told. Am I clear?"

There was the _look_ , and Dean felt the quiver in his chin before he could stop it. Telling Dad it wasn't fair was a baby's trick, something Sam would do when he railed against the unfairness of the world. Telling Dad about not being able to remember most of his day would only invite further ire. Telling Dad about the boiler room-

"I'll do my homework, Dad," he said. "I promise."

"And I'll get no more phone calls from that principal?"

"No, Dad."

Dad paused, looking him up and down. "Dean, is everything okay?"

He couldn't understand why Dad was asking him this question; he had everything under control, except for the homework. "Yeah, Dad," he said, "it's fine." Then he tried to look confident, realized that chewing on his lip was ruining the effect, and made himself stop.

Dad looked at the carpet, stained and now wet. Then he sighed. "I'll get dinner. You hit the book, and tomorrow, there'd better be books."

"Yes, Dad."

Dad bent to pick up his jacket and his duffle, and took them into the little bedroom in the front of the trailer. Dean used the moment to quickly take off his sneakers, hang his coat on a chair, and settled himself at the table, bag in hand, with his back to the wall. From his position, he could see the open doorway to the back bedroom.

"Can I come out?" asked Sam, his hissing whisper like a steam kettle.

"Yeah," Dean hissed back. He watched Sam come closer, his bag in his hand, far more full than Dean's was.

Sam sat with his back to the hallway to the second bedroom and moved stuff around in his bag before pulling out some worksheets and a pencil. "Times tables," Sam said.

"Didn't you already do that?" asked Dean, bending his head low, pulling out his geography book. Listening for Dad.

"No," said Sam, equally quiet. "That was addition and subtraction. Over and over."

Dean opened his book with both hands, and panicked for a second while he realized he had no idea what he was supposed to do with it. His mind clicked back. He could picture Mr. Collins with his blue tie that he'd worn today. Something about Siberia. Dean ran his finger along the table of contents till he saw Siberia listed and then turned to that page. The whole chapter or just parts of it? From the beginning, or near the middle? Why didn't he know?

Stomach going like a tilt-a-whirl, he thought he'd start at the beginning. Then tomorrow he'd write down what Mr. Collins said, so he'd remember at the end of the day. And he'd do the same for all of his classes. Yeah. That was the answer.

Dad came out of the front room, sock-footed, flannel shirtsleeves rolled up, the front of his thermal shirt stained near the bottom with something dark. As he walked into the kitchen, he caught Dean's eye and nodded. The lecture had been delivered, and Dean knew his place; nothing more would be said about it.

"Spaghetti?" asked Dad, wanting confirmation that his boys had not eaten any recently. He opened one cupboard, and then shut it. Opened another one. They'd not been in the trailer long enough for any of them to know where they'd put anything.

"Yeah," said Dean. That sounded good. "There's garlic bread in the freezer," he added to that, hoping Dad would take the hint.

He did.

As the water boiled, Dad heated up a jar of store bought spaghetti sauce, one with a blue parrot on it, and whatever that had to do with tomato sauce, Dean didn't know. Then, while the spaghetti cooked and the bread heated up in the little oven, Dad laid the dishes and mix of silverware on the table, taking up room. Letting Dean know, without words, that study time was over. For now. Sam had already finished all of his sheets, of course, and had just started on marking up a map of the United States, but he too stopped, and cleared away his work.

The meal was good and hot. Not that it was hard making spaghetti, but there was something about not having made it himself, having Dad home to make it, that made it extra good. He even managed to pretend to forget to pour the milk, which earned him a scowl from Dad, so that Dad would have to pour it for them all. It always tasted better when Dad poured it, not that that was something he could ever put into words.

And it was nice having them all at the table together. Even Sammy kept his dorky chatter to a minimum while Dean put away enough spaghetti and sauce and bread for two Winchesters. When he started to choke on his milk, he was chugging it so fast, Dad gave Dean a grin, patted him on the back, and took the glass away.

"Take it easy there, kiddo," he said, a good mood having taken the place of the earlier bad one. "And, Dean, I'm leaving in the morning for another job, if it doesn't keep snowing. You do your homework and make sure Sammy does his. I'll do laundry when I get back."

Dean nodded, keeping his eyes on his plate, on the fork curled up in his fist. "Okay, Dad."

"And the books, Dean, I mean it. When I come back-"

"I'll do it, Dad," said Dean, swallowing. Looking up, the dark eyes of his father's meeting his, that mouth working as though over a sore spot. "I promise."

After dinner, Dean did the dishes in the shallow metal sink and left them in the drainer to dry. At one point the idea had been to make Sammy dry them, to give him more responsibility, but he managed to drop more than he dried. Even getting used Corelle from the Salvation Army hadn't made any difference. Besides which, Dad had found out that letting dishes air dry was actually healthier, so Sam was off the hook. Forever.

Then Dad planted himself in the Dad chair, sock feet up on the ottoman, the TV on to some old movie, something with horses. It looked like a Clint Eastwood movie, but Clint wasn't on screen, so Dean couldn't be sure. He settled on the couch anyway, his geography book up, reading, hoping it was the right chapter, hoping Dad wouldn't notice and exile him to the dining room table. Sammy settled himself at the other end of the couch, some book open under the lamp on the side table, lips moving slightly as he worried his thumb with his teeth, eyes tracking each word.

Then it got later. The movie turned into the evening news, and Dean nudged Sammy, already half-asleep, with his foot. Sam's head jerked upright and he looked at Dean, head tilted back, eyes mostly closed, like he could already feel a pillow behind him. Dean tipped his head in the direction of the bedroom and closed his geography book as quietly as he could. As he got up, he left it on the couch, and walked over to the TV to turn it down a little.

"Don't change the channel," said Dad, without opening his eyes. His head was resting against the lumpy pillow at the top of the chair, and Dean nodded without saying anything. He hustled Sam to the bathroom, where both of them brushed their teeth, and flipping that light off, he reached around to turn on the bedroom light. Not that they couldn't get dressed in the dark, of course, but the room was so small and still somewhat new to them that bumping into something sharp-edged was a good possibility.

Dean took pjs from the drawer and put them on. He would soon be too old for pjs, and would sleep in his underwear and a t-shirt like Dad did. Sammy put on his striped pjs and slipped into the bed, taking the spot against the wall. Dean turned off the light and crawled in beside his brother.

"You gonna have a nightmare again, Dean?" asked Sam. Whispering in the dark. Dean could feel him pulling the covers up to his chin. The room, with only one heating vent coming up from the floor, was chilly. Dean thought about getting the space heater, but it was in the living room, and he didn't want to get up.

"No," he said. "I never have nightmares. You're the one who has nightmares all the time."

He felt rather than heard Sammy sigh. "Okay. But you make the bed shake sometimes."

"Do not."

"You do too." Sammy nodded his head, moving it against the pillow, making the bed shake. "You do."

"I do not, you jerk. Quit saying that."

" _Boys_."

This from the living room, quiet, but loud enough and fierce enough to shut them both up.

"So shut up," said Dean. Whispering now.

" _You_ shut up."

" _You_." He reached over and socked Sam in the arm. Heard Sam grunt in his throat as he took it and immediately felt bad. "Sorry."

"S'okay." This said low, almost under Sammy's breath, like the faint sound of a faraway ghost.

Then Sam rolled over, facing towards the wall, and Dean lay on his back, with only his face and the tips of his fingers out of the blanket and sheets. His heart was still settling down from pounding, his stomach full of spaghetti, and his head feeling like it had a huge concrete wall in it. He didn't know what was on the other side. He didn't know if he wanted to know.

In the morning, he woke up, curled into a small ball against Sam's ribs. Sam was already awake, his hands behind his head, stretched out, looking down at Dean. He didn't say anything, but Dean already knew, knew by the soft, appraising look in Sam's eyes, that yes, he'd had a nightmare that he luckily couldn't remember, and yes, he'd shaken the bed with it. But Sam, being Sam, didn't need to say a word to make his point.

 

 ****

 **Friday, November 24 th, 2006**

Sam stirred, waking to a dry mouth and all of his covers flung off. There was a slender thread of light coming between the crack in the curtains, and with it he checked the room. It was 8 o'clock, according to the square red numbers on the nightstand, and with a click, the heat came on. What on earth? It was already boiling in the room.

He got up and opened the lid to the controls on the air conditioner/heater. It was set to high heat, so he turned the knob to low heat, and felt the room cool almost instantly as the heat and the fan pushing it around went off. He didn't remember it being that high last night. In the other bed, as he turned to look at it, Dean was face down, bundled in the covers. It looked like he was wearing one of Sam's hoodies with the hood up as well, though Sam didn't remember him borrowing it. Or even mentioning that he needed it. A cold was the likely culprit, because even though it hadn't been that chilly, who knew where germs lurked in this dry climate.

"Dean," he said, not kicking the bed. Instead, he leaned close and gave Dean's shoulder a pat. Just a small one, but Dean flung out at him as though under attack. Sam jumped back, feeling like a rabbit on the run, and tried not to snap something mean. It would start out the day with much more tension than was needed, and the way things were going, they'd find enough tension between them to string wire.

"Dean, can you get up so we can go to breakfast? They'll have sweet rolls if we're early enough."

Groaning, Dean sank back into his pillow. "I'm not hungry."

"Look," said Sam, going over to his duffle to dig for some mostly clean jeans and socks. "Just come and have coffee or something so we can go over what we're going to ask Blake and Mates." He pulled on the jeans and zipped up.

"Who?" Now Dean sat up, blankets tucked around him like bunting.

"Blake and Mates. Janitor and Principal, respectively. The diner around the corner has very good donuts, by the way they sold out yesterday. C'mon, will you?"

With several dark mumbles, Dean pulled himself out of bed and began pulling on clothes. First his socks, then his jeans, as normal. He pulled off the hoodie to pull on some thermal underwear over his t-shirt, and then a flannel shirt. Then he put the hoodie back on.

"Will you quit watching me?"

"I've never seen you wear so many clothes, Dean. You really are coming down with a cold, because if you're not, this room is like a dry sauna for no reason."

"Yeah, I turned it up last night," said Dean. Shrugging. He grabbed the keys from the table between the beds and shoved it in his pocket, and jingled them while he stood there. "Gonna bring the notes?"

"Yeah," said Sam, gathering up the folder and his pen. He needed coffee and he needed toast. With butter and jam.

As they entered the diner, the smell of coffee and grease settling over everything, Sam asked for a table by the window, liking the way the sun slanted in, liking the quiet of the corner. He sat in the chair with his back to the wall, smiling at Dean's frown. It was warm enough that he could take off his jacket and drape it behind him. Something that Dean did not do. But rather than bring up a cold that Dean would, no doubt, dismiss, he let it go. If Dean wanted to wear his leather jacket and get egg on it, that was his problem.

"So these guys," said Dean, sitting across from him, pulling out the menu. He waved his hand in the air, like he was coaxing Sam to remember his lines. "What's his name and what's his name-"

"Rondo Blake and Henry Mates. They agreed to meet with us today, either because they have nothing better to do, or because they have a story to tell and no one to tell it to."

"Either is likely," said Dean, cryptic. Staring at the inside flap of the plastic coated menu. He knew, as well as Sam did, that sometimes people had a story to tell, even after six months, it was likely they could get information from two guys who would have the key to every room in the building.

The waitress came by and Sam ordered his favorite, a ham and cheese omelet, and a short stack of pancakes. Did that come with bacon? Thank you. And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.

When she turned to Dean, he hesitated, like he was going to refuse her. Like he ever refused food. "Uh," he said, not looking at Sam. His concentration full on the menu. "Coffee. Um, toast."

"Dean." It was not a question, but Sam said it with some force.

"I'll have the number one, the two egg special. Sunny side up."

"Thank you sir," said the waitress, back in about two seconds with a pot of coffee, filling their cups far enough so that Sam had to take several sips of black before he could add cream and sugar. Dean had no problem, he liked it black. But he didn't touch the cup.

"Are you going to be like this all day?" asked Sam.

"Like what?"

"Like this. Grunting. Not eating. Bundled up like an Eskimo."

"I'm not bundled up like an Eskimo," said Dean, fiddling with the handle on his cup. "I just got a cold is all, so you can just back off before you start."

Sam blinked.

"Yeah, Sam, you. You've been at me since we started this job, and I'm sick of it. Quit harassing me."

"I'm not harassing you."

"Yes, you are. Like right now."

"How-" Sam stopped to take a breath, to let himself cool off. "How am I harassing you? You mean about getting breakfast?" Sam waved his hands over the table. "It's not like you to not order, especially breakfast. You want to say it's a cold and that you're not hungry, then, fine, don't order. Don't let me boss you around, but don't tell me I'm harassing you."

The waitress came with their orders, which meant that they could only glower at each other while she was there. And for some moments after she left, at their plates, as Dean asked for the salt and pepper to be passed, as Sam reached for the cream.

After several mouthfuls where it was obvious Dean was putting food in his mouth to please Sam, he looked up, brows furrowed. "Can we just stick to the job? Sam?"

"Fine," said Sam.

"Fine," said Dean.

*

Rondo Blake's place was half of a duplex off of North Broadway, where the town suddenly flattened out on the top of a mesa, which was scattered with gas station, trailers, a goat farm, and a development that looked old even though it was new. When they knocked on Rondo's brown door, he let them in, smelling slightly like weed, a lot like patchouli, and with a beard long enough for a castaway.

"Come on in, man, glad you could make it."

As if he'd invited them to a party or something. That's what Dean's look said, and Sam shrugged and scowled to hide his smile. If Rondo was stoned, his story might not have enough facts to do them any good. Or they could get stoned on the residual smoke, which probably, in Dean's mind, wouldn't be half bad.

They were waved to the leather couch that was half covered in blankets and a pillow. The other half was a pile of clothes, hopefully clean.

"Don't mind that," said Rondo, shoving everything on the floor. "Buddy of mine had to crash here last night. You guys want Kool-Aid or something? Is it too early for beer?"

"Not by my watch," said Dean, settling back, giving the blankets on the floor a kick.

Sam sat next to him, taking in the mountain climbing posters, the gear in the corner, ropes and belaying hooks, and took a beer when Rondo offered it to him. It was cold in his hand. He didn't have to drink it, he knew that, but sometimes it paid to look like you were joining the party.

Dean took his beer with both hands, opened it with his ring, and took a healthy swig.

"So," said Rondo, with a beer of his own as he settled into a nap-worn comfy chair. "You got a problem up at that school, huh?" He took a large swig of his beer. "Fire away."

"What can you tell us about what happened?"

"You mean why I only worked there a month?"

"Did you?" Sam looked sideways at Dean, who shrugged. This hadn't come out in their conversation with Audrey or Phil.

"Yeah, shit, that school was nasty."

"Nasty?" asked Dean. "Like run down?"

That was hard to believe, the way it currently looked, all sparkly and well tended. Sam shook his head.

"No, man. Spooky nasty." Rondo shook his head. "Them damn X's every where, lockers being opened. It was a good gig, right, but I could never explain why I wasn't changing light bulbs fast enough. And then they found the you-know-what in the file cabinet."

Dean was smiling against the mouth of his beer, Sam could tell, even without looking.

Rondo followed suit, swallowing loudly, not hiding his belch. "Yeah, I'm the hippy, right, so of course, it's the weed that's keeping me from doing my job, not anything else."

"Was it something else?" asked Sam, leaning forward. He let the beer dangle between his hands as he rested his elbows on his knees.

"Damn straight. That was a good gig for me. It was easy to keep up, there weren't any bad kids lighting fires or shooting each other or peeing in trashcans. Kids are pigs, right?" Rondo gulped down the last half of his beer and then put the empty bottle by his foot. And while still looking down at his shoelaces, he seemed more alert than he had since they'd come in. "I worked nights so I could climb during the day, right? I would go down a hall, having waxed it, swept, done the trash, or whatever. Then I would get all cold, and then turn around to find light bulbs burned out, X's up high over the lockers. Lockers open that had been closed when I went past 'em. Could _hear_ lockers being opened in another hallway. But there was nobody there but me."

"You sure of that?" This from Dean, who had finished his beer also and looked like he could use another one. "Could have been-could have been someone else there."

"Man, did you _hear_ me?" Rondo slipped back in his seat, his head on the headrest. "I was the only one there."

"And did you tell anyone?"

"Yeah, man, I did. They got one earful of my story and then they searched that boiler room, and found my weed. I only smoked it on my break, right? It let me think. And I got the job done, so what the hell did they care."

"Well," said Sam, trying not to laugh or shake his head. "Schools are funny that way."

"And it gets even funnier, right?"

"How so?"

"I asked around, right? Janitors talk, you know. To each other. It's like a little community, and thank Peter for that, because I've got me a cleaning gig in Ft. Collins starting next week, and man, there are some rocks up there."

Sam felt his patience slipping away. "What did you ask them?"

"What was going on, don't you get it?"

Both he and Dean shook their heads. Sam prepared himself to take it on the chin from Dean after they left Rondo's place. Dean would give it to him but good. _Waste of time, Sam._

 __

"It was the last janitor. That's what they said. He hung himself. In the boiler room."

"And that would be-" said Sam, leaving it open, not seeing the pieces.

"It's Mr. Gunnarson," said Dean, and Rondo nodded at him.

"Yeah, man. Old Mr. Gunnarson is haunting the school. That's what suicides do, right?"

"How the hell, Dean," said Sam, turning towards his brother. "How the hell do you know who this guy is?"

Dean's hands froze on his beer as he brought it to his mouth.

"Yeah, man," asked Rondo, "you go to school there, or something?"

Dean's mouth was open, his eyes on Rondo. Like Rondo was suddenly going to turn into a snake or something. "Yeah, uh, yeah. I went to school there, and the janitor's name was Gunnarson. So I figured-"

"That's who you thought it was when we talked to Audrey and Phil, too, Dean." Sam felt like he was going to have to start shouting to get Dean to answer him.

"Hey, how they doing anyway?" asked Rondo. "Still mad at me for the weed, right?"

It was frustrating that Dean wouldn't look at him, but he was now studying the beer bottle in his hands like his fingers wanted to tease the label off. Like it was the most important thing he would be working on that morning. Or any morning.

"They're fine, Rondo," said Sam, "and they send their regards."

Rondo snorted at this and then looked up as Dean jumped to his feet. Not giving his brother the chance to find out why the hell Dean kept bringing up some old janitor.

"Come on, Sam," said Dean.

Rondo stood up as well, and the two men clasped hands like old drinking buddies soon to be parted. "Alright, man, you take care, and hey, call if, you know, you want to hang out or something."

Then he reached to shake Sam's hand, which Sam responded to, hoping he wasn't frowning. Not that it made any difference who Rondo was or what he did with his spare time. He'd given them a big lead, one they should have figured out for themselves. But trust the universe to laugh at them long and loud by having some ex-janitor-climber-wanna be figure out the reason for the haunting. He hoped the universe got a bellyache. Thank goodness janitors talked.

"Thank you, Rondo," he said. "Take care.

They left, and as the front door shut behind them, Sam took several lungfuls of sharp, clear air.

"If we get stopped by the cops," said Sam, shaking his lapel as he smelled it.

"I'll tell them you've got it hidden on your person."

"You would," said Sam, snapping back.

Sam allowed himself to get into the car without going at Dean about Mr. Gunnarson, seeing as Dean wasn't going to go after him about Rondo being a waste of time. Because he hadn't been. Getting pissed off wouldn't do any good anyway, and besides, they had a real lead. If Rondo knew about the suicide, then surely Bob Mates would, too.

"Where does he live?" asked Dean, pulling out of the driveway.

"Head south here, on Broadway," said Sam, pointing. Wishing he'd taken at least one good swallow of beer. "Then, it goes downhill. When it goes uphill again, we take a right on Mapleton."

The drive was silent, the after holiday traffic getting thicker as people headed out to shop. Mapleton was a tree-lined street, with elegant, large houses, and substantial fences around each one. Expensive cars. More trees in each yard. Mr. Mate's house was one of the smaller ones, sided with stone and surrounded by a tidy green lawn. Dean parked on a side street half a block away, not wanting to leave the Impala in harm's way.

"Is he going to be in?" asked Dean, as they walked along a flagstone sidewalk. Then Sam opened the gate to Mr. Mate's yard. More flagstone.

"Yeah, he said his wife was shopping and didn't want to hear any of this. She's had enough, she said."

"Wow. That's supportive." Dean smirked at Sam and banged on the door with the brass knocker.

Before Sam could make any kind of retort about people getting tired of other people's shit, the door opened. Mr. Mates looked just like a retired principal should: cardigan sweater half-buttoned over a round belly, neat hair and eyeglasses. Indoor loafers. A newspaper in his hand.

"You the boys about the school?" he asked.

"Yes, Mr. Mates. I'm Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean."

Mates opened the door wider and welcomed them in with a wave of his newspaper. The house smelled like baking and cleanser. Everything was dusted and tidy except for the newspaper spread out over the dining room table.

"Doing the crosswords. Gives my wife fits, so I have to sneak it in when she's not here."

Sam didn't acknowledge Dean's continued smirk.

"We appreciate you taking some of that crossword puzzle time, then, Mr. Mates, to answer some questions."

"Bob," said Mr. Mates, as if addressing a fourth party in the room. "You boys make yourself comfortable." He pointed at the padded chairs. "Any of the remaining five."

Sam sat across from Bob Mates and his newspapers and the little scratch pad he used so he could, apparently, do the final puzzle in ink and amaze his wife. Dean sat on his left and folded his hands on the table. Like he was a schoolboy and in trouble.

"So, Bob," said Sam, tipping his head forward, trying for his best not-meaning-to-impose face. "What can you tell us about the school? You said over the phone that you couldn't-"

"Not with my wife listening," said Bob. Scowling. He tapped his pen on the pad. "She hates talking about this."

"About-?" Sam began the question, let his voice trail off. People loved to fill in the blanks. Especially lovers of crossword puzzles.

"About all of it! The suicide. That janitor, Mr. Gunnarson-"

"Wasn't he a co-worker of yours?"

This from Dean who hadn't even as much as nodded hello to the man. Sam found himself staring, open jawed.

"Excuse me, young man?"

"You worked with him," said Dean, biting off each word. "You were the principal there while he was the janitor. So, co-worker and friend, I'd say."

Now it was Bob's turn. His mouth hung open a little while he regarded Dean, the pen still in his hand, his fingers looking like they wanted to turn it around and around.

"Do I know you?"

"I went-" Dean stared, a little gasp of breath escaping him. "I went to that school while you were the principal. Years ago, it was-"

"1992," said Bob. Nodding now. Pleased with himself. "Yeah, that's you. You got into a fight with that Joel Booth, and Gunnarson covered for you."

"You knew that?"

"You didn't start the fight, Dean, I asked around, I asked teachers on bus duty. But you were going to end it, and it was going to get messy."

Dean tucked his chin and tried to look abashed at this, but failed.

"I thought you said you'd never gotten into a fight at that school," said Sam.

Shrug. "Dude, I forgot. What difference does it make?"

Only that every fight Dean had ever been in, especially the ones that he'd won, while sometimes a secret from Dad, had been spelled out to Sam. Lessons in how to win. What to do. What not to do. When to walk, when to run away.

Then he remembered the day Bob Mates was talking about. It had been a bright, windy day, with snow on the street and in the lee side of all the trees. When the white van had dropped him off, Dean had not been there to meet him, as he usually was. There had been some teachers there, watching him, and Sam tried not to look at them, thinking in the back of his mind that he shouldn't attract too much attention. Then, suddenly, Dean had raced out of the front doors, his pea coat open. His collar, awry. He'd been white and sweating, for all it was cold.

Sam had asked questions because, from the way Dean was curled forward, it looked like someone had punched him in the stomach. Dean's denial had been quick. He'd denied anything was wrong, though the walk home had been slow, even for Sam, because Dean had kept tripping over his own feet.

Dean opened his mouth now and turned sharply towards Sam, and Sam knew what was on his lips, ready to burst out: _Quit looking at me like that_.

So he looked away. Looked at Bob. Pressed his lips together and took a breath.

"Why don't you tell us what you know, Bob, and we'll see where that takes us."

"Sure, sure." Bob looked at his crossword puzzle, which Sam could see had the dignity of being from the New York Times. Knew Bob wanted to bury himself inside of it. Made himself wait.

"Gunnarson worked at that school, I don't know, twenty years or more. Not a black mark on his record, and he kept that school like it was his own. Kept it brand new. You see what I'm saying, why it was so wrong what happened to him?

 __

 _What happened to him?_ Sam kept his mouth shut over this, tipped his head at Dean to keep him quiet as well. It worked. For the moment.

"Gunnarson committed suicide. But why? I'll tell you why. Because of that kid. That dumb kid and his accusations."

Someone shifted in his chair. There was a loud creak. It could have been Dean but he'd not moved.

Then Bob looked up. "Sorry. You're not in the school system; it was all over like wildfire. Some kid accused poor Roy of inappropriate touching. But before they could take him in for questioning, you know, so he could clear his name, he hung himself. In the boiler room. The stress, after looking after those kids and that school, and that's the thanks he gets for it?" He pulled his lips in against his teeth and did what all grown men did. He sucked it back.

"What kid?" asked Sam.

Bob shook his head. "I can't tell you that. It's unsubstantiated anyway. Kid transferred to another school, I hired Rondo Blake, who turned out to be a pothead, and then I retired. And that's it. End of story."

"His word against the janitor's, anyway," said Dean. Flat.

"No, that's the thing of it. Kid said he had proof. That Roy kept files on each kid. Kept them in the school somewhere. Said he saw them. What a joke. A man's life, let alone his reputation, ripped to shreds by some lying punk."

"So, no one believed him then, this kid?" Sam made his voice gentle.

"No and why should they? I worked with Roy, hell, we practically started at that school together. He wasn't into that. I would have noticed something. Or some other kid would have said something."

"Maybe they were afraid," said Dean. His voice sounded uncomfortable, but Sam could hardly blame him. Dealing with an accused pedophile, or rather, the ghost of an accused pedophile, was not their usual thing.

"They shouldn't be, if they're telling the truth." Bob nodded. As sure of this, it seemed, as though it was all black and white, like his puzzles. Sam could see that.

"Anything else you can tell us, Bob?"

"Rondo Blake was sure that it was Roy's ghost haunting the school. If you can believe that. That Roy was leaving X's like a trail. But Roy's dead, so you can see how strange that sounds."

"Yeah," agreed Sam for form's sake. "That's pretty weird." What was even weirder was the fact that a pothead, someone very low on society's ladder, could see the truth better and faster than an upstanding citizen.

"Only what I expect from a pothead," said Bob. "I recommended that they fire him and I retired. It's not really my problem any of it, though I hate to see that school be brought down by rumors. Or some punk kid sneaking in there and causing trouble."

In Bob's mind, it was some punk kid. Some punk liar kid, maybe. Nothing close to the truth.

Sam shoved back his padded chair and held out his hand to shake. Bob shook it.

"Thank you, Bob, for your time, then. We won't take up any more of it."

"I hope you get to the bottom of this mess. That's a good school, even if it does have a woman principal."

"Yeah," said Dean, shaking Bob's hand, going through the motions. "A good school."

"Worth saving," said Bob. "Even if you didn't like it much."

"I liked it just fine," said Dean, drawing his hand back with a snap. He looked like he wanted to wipe his palm on his jeans but refrained. Sam wanted to snap out something about the woman principal remark, but he clamped his teeth on the end of his tongue. It wouldn't serve any purpose, wouldn't change Bob or his opinion.

"Thank you again, Bob," he said instead. He tugged at Dean's jacket with his fingertips, drawing them towards the door. Once outside, he hurried next to Dean, who was walking as fast as he could without running, as though he had someplace he wanted to be. And barely had Sam gotten in on the passenger side and shut the door, Dean had gunned the engine, and tipped the nose of the car into the street. Pulled out quick, not looking.

"So," Dean said, eyes only on the road ahead. "We should go to that school, look for those records."

"What?" Sam felt himself scowling. "What lit a fire under your ass all of a sudden?"

"Nothing," said Dean, not stopping at the stoplight, pulling through, taking a right turn, fast. "But I think I got it figured out. We can wrap this gig up easy, just like you said."

Dean pushed the Impala into the traffic on Broadway, heading south, purposeful. Not using his blinkers. Scaring other cars with the growl of his engine.

"And?"

"I'll take you to the school now and show you."

"Can we get lunch first?" It wasn't like Dean to not remember that it was coming on to noon, the sun was at a hard slant, coming down like brass, warming the air in the car so the heater wasn't necessary, though Dean had it on anyway. Sam felt himself grow hot, wanted to turn it down. Didn't.

"Yeah, okay," said Dean. "How about that Chinese place, Fans. North of town?"

Sam nodded, and Dean drove them there. He was tired of noodles and soy sauce, but this was comfort food to Dean, so if he would eat it, Sam would put up with Chinese. Again. Except, once there and when the food was brought to their table, Dean merely poked at it.

"This great idea of yours, then?"

"Gunnarson's ghost," said Dean, waving an egg roll for emphasis, "is looking for his files. That's why he's marking everywhere. To remind him of where he's already looked. Phil, a very tidy man, kept erasing the marks. If he'd left them, Gunnarson would be at rest, having found the files."

"Having found them, what was he going to do with them?" Sam felt the question was self-evident. "He's a ghost, he can't actually destroy the evidence."

"Well, maybe he just wanted to know where they were. Since he forgot while he was hanging himself."

It made an odd sort of sense. Find the records, take what Gunnarson was looking for, if that's what he was doing with the crazy X's, and that would stop the X's.

"We still have to salt and burn the bones," said Sam.

"Got to have a body for that."

"Easy enough. Now that I have a name and a context, I can find it."

Dean nodded, nibbling at his wonton like he was some dainty girl, as though the food didn't interest him at all.

 

 ****

 **Friday, January 17th, 1992**

Once at school, Dean's morning classes rolled past him, though he did remember to attempt a list of each assignment.

When he went to the lunchroom, he could see that there was beef stew and carrot rounds on the menu. That's what the kids were eating. His stomach lurched as he felt the dollar in his pocket. There was a nice little stack of them in his sock drawer. He wasn't hungry, suddenly, and he looked around. Even if he went in, there was no telling who would show up, unseen, especially if Dean sat with his back to the door. Which he never would do. He knew better.

The day got better when he got to geography, and he concentrated on that rather than on his stomach growling and burning. It was nice that Joel was out today. Not that he couldn't have taken Joel; he could have bloodied that face of his as quick as anything. But Dad had said, head down. Do your homework. Stick to the plan.

Dean stuck to the plan. He was able to do the worksheet on Siberia with no problem, and carefully wrote down the assignment for the next chapter, plus the test on Wednesday. Putting a big circle around the information with a flourish, he shut his notebook loudly and nodded at it. This was part of what Dad wanted.

When the last bell rang, Dean went to his locker and collected all his books. He was pretty sure he had assignments in every class, in addition to which, all of his teachers, except for Mr. Collins, had given him a list of makeup assignments that were to be done over the weekend. Dad would want to see the list, and, no doubt, the finished assignments when he came home to do laundry on Sunday. Though Dean could do that, if need be, in the little stacked washer and dryer that stood narrow and cramped in the corner of the bathroom.

He hauled on his coat without buttoning it up, but the day was sunny, and the walk home would be pleasant. Pulling his heavy bag with the books over his shoulder, he headed down the main hallway, in front of the principal's office and towards the front door.

Then a pair of hands grabbed him and guided him towards the little side hallway, and before he could think, he was being pushed down the metal stairs and down the narrow dark passageway towards the janitor's office, the bank of boilers humming and blinking in the dusty, still air.

"Did you have a nice day, Dean?" asked Mr. Gunnarson, taking off the bag and Dean's coat and laying both of them on the lumpy green couch. "You look like you didn't sleep well."

For a moment, Dean could only stand there, his mouth open, blinking. His eyes moved to the open doorway, and beyond that, the little rectangle that was light coming through the little window at the top of the stairs.

"Come here, Dean," said Mr. Gunnarson. He sat at the chair in front of his desk and for a moment, Dean looked at that, at the stacks of pink and yellow paper, the pencil cup with only one pencil in it, a bottle of some type of fluid, a greasy rag flung over the top. At the circles of stains on the wood on the pitted surface of the desk. At Mr. Gunnarson's shoes.

"Come on, Dean, don't be shy. You know I won't hurt you."

Mr. Gunnarson tugged at his arms and pulled Dean between his legs. He half lifted Dean to settle against his thigh, and gave Dean a pat.

"Been having trouble with your classes, is that it?"

Startled, Dean turned to look at Mr. Gunnarson, seeing part of his own reflection in Mr. Gunnarson's large glasses.

"Teachers talk in the lounge, you know," said Mr. Gunnarson. He rubbed Dean's thigh and drew him close in a hug. "It must be hard to start a new school like that. Everything so new and maybe a little scary."

For a second, Dean felt the gentle words fall over him like a blanket, how nice it was that someone understood just exactly how it was. Not that Dean wasn't willing to do what Dad wanted, that wasn't it. But he couldn't complain, not to Dad, who wouldn't listen to any whining, and not to Sam, who loved each new school like it was his first. Mr. Gunnarson's fingers were undoing the button on Dean's jeans, unzipping them, and pulling down cloth on his underwear. The cool skin of Mr. Gunnarson's fingers on his bare skin quickly turned warm.

"No," he said, "Don't do that, don't-"

"Now, Dean," said Mr. Gunnarson, using the heel of his hand to push down on Dean's crotch. "This will feel good. It will make you feel better."

It didn't.

Dean turned his head away, tucked his chin to his shoulder so he wouldn't have to watch, but it couldn't keep it from happening. Mr. Gunnarson pushed and pulled on Dean, his breath coming in hard gasps while his thigh trembled beneath Dean. Then Mr. Gunnarson pushed hard, and it hurt, but Dean was startled by Mr. Gunnarson's loud groan, and a dense, salty smell. He almost fell backwards then, but grabbed at the cloth of Mr. Gunnarson's shirt to steady himself. Still looking away. Still trying not to look down and see himself, to see Mr. Gunnarson's hand stroking him, gently now. Like it wanted to sooth, even though it was shaking.

Light lanced down through the frosted windows, and Dean slid off Mr. Gunnarson's lap, pulling up his underwear, buttoning his jeans. He reached for his pea coat and put it on. Grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He glanced at Mr. Gunnarson, who was sitting in the chair like a statue, his mouth slack, eyes a little glazed. Then, without asking permission, Dean walked out of the janitor's office and up the stairs, careful to shut the door behind him. Once he turned the corner, he could see the flash of orange bus, and the white of the van just entering the parking lot, which was good, because it meant he wasn't late.

But by the time he reached the door, he realized he had a disaster on his hands. Sammy came flying off the van before it had even stopped. His nose was bleeding, and the blood had soaked his shirt. But even worse, he held up his right arm like a stump and for a second, Dean thought someone had cut his hand off. But it was the mitten that was gone, missing from his string. Dean knew that even before Sammy had said a word.

"He cut it, he cut it off!" Fury, it was fury, and anger, all rolled up and glittering in Sammy's eyes. "I punched him, I punched him hard, and he ran away."

Dean reached out for the empty sleeve, reached in and pulled Sam's hand out, the ragged edge of the string trailing around his wrist like a leech. Sam's hand was cold.

"Why?"

"He said it was _stupid_." Sammy spit out the word. "He's stupid. Uncle Bobby gave them to me, and I want my mitten back!"

There was no way to get the mitten back, unless Dean went to Sam's school and beat up the boy and made him. Or if Sam made him, which, at this point, given the black swirl of pure hate around Sammy, wasn't a far possibility.

"We'll get your mitten," said Dean, dropping the sleeve and reaching for Sam's face. Used his thumb to press against Sam's upper lip, to swipe away the blood. It was slowing. "Looks like he punched you, too."

"It wasn't a good punch," said Sam. Now he was starting to sniff, snot mixing with blood, and running down to his chin. Using the tail end of his flannel shirt, Dean wiped some of it away, but it just went everywhere. Not hopeless, a good, cool washcloth would take care of it. But in the meantime, Sammy was on the edge of bawling out loud. Now that he'd told Dean what had happened, his woe over his mitten could march to the fore, leaving the anger ashes at his feet.

"Come on, let's go home."

He motioned with his head, towards home as the buses and the van left the parking lot, as mothers in minivans stopped and started, picking up their kids and moving along, just as it should be.

"We'll get you new mittens," said Dean as they walked along the side of the road, the wind blowing their open jackets back, streaming through their hair, whistling past their ears. He stopped them at the first corner to zip Sammy up, buttoned himself up, and bent his shoulders into the wind. Even though the sun was shining, it was not warm, and particularly, as they walked beneath the long shadows, it was positively cold. "New ones, Sammy."

"I want my mitten," said Sam. Lips drawn in a mulish line as he wiped away his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a dark streak on the sleeve of his coat. "It's _mine_."

Now the tears were dripping off Sammy's chin, and Dean let them. There wasn't any point in stopping them, it would be like trying to dam up the waters of a fast, hard river, so you might as well let the water spill now as later. But he had to try.

"C'mon, it's just a mitten."

"It was _red_ ," Sammy said, twisting his head to look at Dean, stopping by the empty field, where the autumn-burned cattails bent under the wind. "It was red and it was _mine_."

Dean stopped too. Let the wind whistle down his collar, felt the grit of Sammy's blood drying on his fingers. "So beat him up and get it back."

Sam's eyes were pooling with tears, which left streaks on his face, and behind that, Dean could see the flicker of thinking this through.

"Or I could," Dean offered, not sure how he would manage the logistics of it.

Then Sammy scrubbed his eyes with both of his hands, wiped the snot and blood from his upper lip with his sleeve again, and swallowed. "No, I'll do it. I'll get it back."

Funny Sam. Crying one minute, and then pulling his shoulders back the next.

They walked on, and Dean thought about dinner and homework, and what might be on TV, and whether Dad might come home early. That would be good if he did.

When they got to the trailer, Sammy's tears had dried, and Dean used the key on the string around his neck to unlock the door and let them in. He turned up the heat a little bit, telling himself to remember to turn it down later, before Dad got back.

They put their coats on the chairs, dumped the bags on the floor next to the couch, and Dean thought that the homework could wait till tomorrow. After all, it was Friday night, wasn't it? He had the whole weekend to get his assignments done. Sam went to wash his face and change his shirt. When he came back he said, "Hot dogs."

"Again?" asked Dean. Sam would have hot dogs every day of the week if Dad let him.

"And macaroni and cheese. In a box."

Putting his hands on his hips, Dean stood in the middle of the kitchen, pulling his eyebrows down in a scowl. But Sam wasn't fooled. He just smiled and started getting everything out, opening a few cupboards with false starts, as they all still did, putting the packages of pink hot dogs on the counter with a triumphant smack.

"There. Cook now."

"Only if we have chocolate pudding after," said Dean. Mock stern.

"Well," said Sam, floating away to throw himself on the couch. "If we have to."

Dean made dinner, standing as close to the heating element as he could. He couldn't understand why he was freezing, but he didn't want to turn up the heat anymore. Dad was sure to find out and get pissed. Instead, he concentrated on putting extra butter in the mac and cheese. When he was finished cooking, they ate sitting on the couch, watching sitcoms till Sam snorted milk through his nose. Then they switched to America's Most Wanted, which both of them watched in complete silence. Then Dean announced that he was going to make chocolate pudding so Sam could watch Perfect Strangers and Dean wouldn't have to watch it and barf.

"Make a double batch," said Sam, bouncing on the cushions.

"There's only one box, idiot."

Dean went into the kitchen and measured out the milk and poured the powder into a big white, plastic bowl. They didn't have beaters, so he mixed it all together with a spoon, careful to smash the lumps against the side of the bowl. Then he put the bowl in the fridge, and walked over to throw himself in the Dad chair.

"Only Dad gets to sit there," said Sam, taking up the couch with his whole body.

"Well, I'm sitting here now," said Dean, knowing that the only reason he was bold was because Dad wasn't due back till Sunday.

"I'm going to sit there tomorrow," said Sam.

"Right. Like you got the guts."

Dean sank back in the chair, and put his feet up on the ottoman, like Dad did. For a moment, he tilted his head back, closing his eyes, curling his fingers around the worn edges of the armrest. Imagining for a minute that he was Dad, tired, just home from a hunt. Even though he was playing pretend, it made him feel more normal than he had all day. The idea that Dad was home was a good one; he let it sink through him until he felt a little warmer inside.

"Knock it off, boy," he said, making his voice low and gritty.

"You're not Dad," said Sam, not putting up with it.

Dean cracked an eye at Sam, and laughed. Then he hopped up and looked at the clock on the stove. It had been four minutes. He went and checked the pudding, sticking a finger in and licking it. Pretty firm. He got two spoons from the drawer, grabbed the bowl, and went back to the Dad chair. But Sam was sitting in it.

"That's my seat, Sam, get out."

"You move," said Sam, shaking his bangs out of his eyes, both hands on the armrest, "you lose."

"Get out, Sam, or I'll make you."

"Make me."

Dean appraised the situation for a minute. The chair was big enough for two and it was selfish of him to hog the whole thing, even though Sam was wrong. He'd only left the chair because of the pudding. So, tucking the bowl against his hip, he tossed the spoons at Sam, and shimmied in to sit beside him, making Sam go close against one armrest while he snugged himself against the other.

"Big enough for two," said Dean, his hip banging against Sam's.

"Maybe," said Sam.

Dean picked up a spoon where it had fallen in between their thighs and flicked some of the pudding at Sam with it. "Maybe, hell. It's big enough because I said it was."

"And I said maybe." Sam grabbed a spoon and flicked some pudding back at him.

Then Dean took a mouthful of pudding. It was a bit soupy, but it was sweet and cold. "Maybe, baby," he said, licking the back of the spoon. Then he looked at Sam, who had taken a big mouthful of pudding, so much so, that his cheeks were bulging.

"Don't you spit that pudding at me," said Dean, tucking his chin down in warning.

"Mmmmm?" asked Sam, eyebrows protesting his innocence.

"I mean it, Sam. You spit that at me and you'll be sorry."

"Mmmmmmpf," said Sam in response, cheeks bulging even harder as he tried not to laugh.

"Don't. You. Dare."

Sam dared. Exploding, the pudding went all over Dean, all over the lamp behind him. Dean scooped up some pudding with his spoon, and flicking the spoon back with his finger, splashed it all over Sam's face. Sam was laughing so hard, he didn't care, and scooped his hand in the bowl and flung the contents of it at Dean. Dean tried to fling some back, and ended up getting most of the pudding on the wall. Mouth open, almost screaming with it, laughing so hard, his stomach hurt. And then the pudding was gone. Dean looked up. There was even some on the ceiling.

"Oh, shit. Dad's gonna be pissed."

Sam shrugged. Smiled, pudding dripping from his nose. "Not if we clean it up first and promise not to tell."

(Continued in next chapter.) 


	2. Phantom Load - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam return to Boulder, CO, where they investigate a haunted school. The job seems simple enough to Sam, who has good, although vague, memories of living in Boulder back in 1992, when John Winchester rented a single-wide trailer, and the boys were able to walk home from school together. Dean, however, has altogether different memories, far less pleasant and far more damaging. It's during the investigation that Sam discovers the secret that Dean doesn't realize he's been hiding.
> 
> This story is set in the past and the present. It is not wincest; it is weechesters!

__

_Run._

 _Run._

 _Run._

 _It didn't matter how fast. He could see Gunnarson's face glowing bright through a black window. It kept getting closer all the time, no matter what he did or what he ducked behind._

 _He was so tired. But if he stopped, Gunnarson would get him, and hold him, and touch him. He couldn't let that happen._

Someone was shaking him and then his eyes were open in the almost-black room. Sam was actually sitting up, leaning over him.

"Hey," said Sammy, and even though his voice grouchy with sleep, his hand was light on Dean's arm. "Are you awake now?"

Dean grunted, and then rolled over to face the other way. His whole body felt like it had been twisted through with screws, and his legs ached as though he'd been running.

"Sleep now, Sammy," he said. "Go back to sleep."

"No more dreaming out loud, then," said Sam. Dean felt his body thump back down on the mattress. He tried to make himself breathe slowly and quietly but it was hard. Something wet leaked into his ear and soaked into the pillow. He wished Dad was home.

 

 ****

 **Saturday, January 18th, 1992**

In the morning, the sun streamed in through the crack in the curtain, waking Dean up like a knife had lanced through his head. Sam was still asleep, still face down in the pillow, so Dean slipped out of bed, and kept the covers low so a draft wouldn't wake the kid up. Then he stepped into the bathroom, and turned on the water to fill the tub. They'd not gotten around to getting a shower curtain yet, so any bathing that had taken place had been in calf-deep water.

The water steamed in the chilly air as the tub filled, and Dean took his pjs off and climbed in, reaching for the bar of soap from the sink, standing and bending to lather it up.

He didn't want to look, but the bruises were there, shaped like puzzle pieces below his belly button, where the dark hair was starting to grow. He touched the top of one bruise with the side of his thumb and thought, yeah, it might hurt to pee. It was too late for ice, but if he left the bruises alone, like Dad always said you should do, leave it alone and don't mess with it, then the bruises would fade. Even there.

Washing up, half crouched down, made his thighs ache, but it felt good to take the plastic pitcher and pour the water over his head and to feel it sliding down his back. He rinsed his hair extra well, and then bent forward to pull out the plastic drain. Water began to swirl in grey ropes down the drain, and then he grabbed the towel from the rack and dried off. By the time he was dressed, Sam was waking up, wanting to know when they were going to the 7-11 for candy.

"Was that today?" he asked.

Sam climbed out of bed and began taking off his pjs and pulling on jeans and his t-shirt from yesterday. "There's no school," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed to put on some socks. Then he shook his bangs out of his eyes. "And Dad's not here."

"Then we should go today," said Dean.

It was only eight o'clock or so, so they got bowls of cereal with the last of the milk and watched cartoons as they sat on the floor, their backs propped up against the couch. Then they rinsed out their bowls and while Dean went to get the baggie of money from the sock drawer, Sam put on his coat and his sneakers, and his one mitten, holding the amputated string in his other fist. Then he hopped from foot to foot.

"Come on, Dean, come on," he said, opening the front door when Dean had his jacket only on halfway. "How far is it?"

"I don't know, exactly," said Dean, testing the knob as they stepped out and Dean pulled the door behind him. Snow scattered like dust at his feet. The air was icy, the sky a sharp blue. "Maybe two miles?"

Sam shrugged and hopped down the stairs, hair flying, coat trailing out behind him.

"Zip up your coat, you dork," said Dean, buttoning his.

Sam did as he was told and they set out, walking westward towards the bright mountains, keeping on the side of the road facing oncoming traffic, well away from the road, running sometimes, walking others. They soon reached the 7-11, where Sam raced to the candy aisle first thing and began humming to himself as he looked over the selection.

When Dean joined him, he asked, "How much do we have?"

Dean had already counted the money as they'd walked. "Ten dollars and sixty cents."

"That's five dollars and thirty cents each, right?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. I'm getting all chocolate."

This made Sam smile, then he returned his attention to the rack. Predictably, he grabbed a bag of gummi bears and then a bag of miniature peanut butter cups along with some red licorice. Dean could tell that this went over five dollars, so he grabbed a Hershey's, a bag of pixie sticks, and a little bag of peanut M and M's. "Okay," he said.

Then they walked home. The wind was at their backs and the sun was higher in the sky, so even though it was still cold, it was pleasant. They opened the candy, and Sam traded him some gummi bears for some pixie sticks, and they munched on the gummis, tipped the straws into their mouths, and opened one peanut butter cup each. By the time they got to the trailer, the Impala was there.

Inside, Dad was making coffee at the stove, flannel sleeves rolled up, toast in the toaster, warming the inside of the trailer with his presence. He smiled at them and nodded as he poured from the coffee pot into a large mug. Dean could see he was half awake, and barely that. From the grit on his neck, Dean could tell that washing up after the hunt had come second to getting coffee.

"Candy run?" he asked, leaning back against the sink to drink his coffee black.

Sam put his coat on the back of the chair, clutching his candy to him. Dean could only stand there with a bag in his hand; the evidence was clear enough. It only took two seconds for the second question to come. And the third.

"Have you done your homework?" This question was almost automatic as if Dad already knew the answer he expected to hear. Then he paused, tipping his head to one side, the coffee mug halfway to his mouth. "Where did you get the candy? And where'd you get the _money_ for candy?"

While Dean'd brought homework home, he'd not started. As for the candy money, that was another story. Sam looked at him, frozen by the dining room table, both hands on his coat.

"The 7-11," said Dean. "We walked there before the traffic got too bad."

"All the way into town?"

Dean nodded.

"And the money?"

Dean paused, looking at the candy. For some reason his brain refused to move backwards and, as hard as he tried, he could not remember.

"I don't know," he said shrugging.

"You don't know? Son, you had to get it from somewhere."

A squirrelly panic began to build up in his stomach and his lips were dry. He licked them and looked up at his father, blinking.

"Don't tell me you took money from the emergency jar, Dean you know that-"

"It's his lunch money, Dad," said Sammy swallowing. "He saved up. And me too."

"Shut up, you jerk," said Dean.

There was a long, cold pause from Dad as he put his coffee mug on the counter. Then he leaned back on his hands as they curled around the edge of it. "Is this right, Dean? You used your lunch money?"

"Yes, sir." Dean shrugged and looked down at his hands. The smell of the open bag of candy was entirely unappetizing at that moment.

"But you said it was a dollar. How do you have leftover money?"

"It-it wasn't a dollar after all for Sam," said Dean. Swallowing. Ducking his head. Knowing the problem wasn't that they'd used the extra money for candy, but that they'd lied about it by not bringing it up. Knew it right away, in the fast second as Dad's feet suddenly came into view. "He had forty-five cents in change every day. We stockpiled it."

"Look at me, Dean," said Dad.

Dean looked up. Dad was scowling, his dark brows drawn down, mouth angry beneath a day's beardgrowth. "Are you telling me-From the looks of it, you spent more than just what Sam had in change. Let me see the receipt."

Dean shrugged. He could do numbers in his head and always did well in math class, but for some reason, he could not remember how much they'd spent at the 7-11, even though it had only been an hour or so ago.

"Receipt," said Dad, snapping this out. He held his hand out and waited like that while Dean dug in his pockets, feeling lint and crumpled paper. Instead of trying to separate the mess, he pulled it all out and plunked it on the table. There was a dollar bill and some quarters and pennies mixed with some thread. And the receipt. Dad fished it out and unfolded it.

For a moment, he looked at it, not saying anything. It was when his eyebrows drew together that Dean figured he was in trouble.

"You gave him over ten dollars, Dean. How many days did you go without lunch? Every day?"

Squirming, Dean thought about this and tried to remember. But there was a big blank spot where his school day should have been, so he couldn't pin down any of it, let alone the time he should have been eating lunch.

"Weren't you hungry?" asked Dad, his head tipping to the side in a way that told Dean he was ready to listen, but that Dean had better speak up.

"I think so-I mean, I just got busy."

"Too busy to eat lunch."

Dean had no answer for this. As far as he could recollect, he'd not gone anywhere near the lunchroom. Why that was, he had no idea.

"What have I told you about that?"

There was a question in Dad's voice that wanted more than the obvious answer. Dad wanted to hear the thing about an army traveling on its stomach as well as its feet plus why Dean hadn't been eating. But Dean couldn't tell him. He didn't know himself.

"Soldiers got to eat, Dad, that's what you said." His voice shook as he said this; he knew he was letting Dad down by the omission that could count as a lie on top of which, he simply could not remember why he was not eating lunch. He was about to open his mouth and apologize when Dad stopped him with a look.

"What have we talked about, Dean? _What_ have we talked about?"

Dean couldn't raise his head. Dad took the bags of candy from his hand, contained rage making them tremble.

"Dean?" This was a question both and a command to answer. Behind him, Dean could hear Sam shuffling while he put his gummis and the peanut butter cups on the table and backed away. "Answer me."

He swallowed but couldn't work up enough spit. It had been a crappy week and this on top of everything else just made it worse. His voice was frozen in his throat, and that just set Dad off.

"If I can't trust you to be honest about this," he shook the pixie sticks at Dean, "then I can't trust you to back me up in a hunt. You follow me? I've got to be able to count on you in the field; I can't do that, if I know you're keeping shit like this from me."

The voice was loud; it boomed in Dean's head. Behind him, Sammy sniffed.

They were both in trouble. Dad picked up the candy, all of it, and threw it on top of the fridge. Then he grabbed Dean's coat and took it off, roughly. Grabbing him by the collar he shoved him in a chair. A second later, the grey messenger bag landed in front of him.

"You're going to finish this," he said. "All of it. Every assignment. And I'm keeping the candy until I can trust you to be honest with me."

Then he pointed at Sam, still frozen.

"And you, go to your room. You can do your homework there. Shut the door."

Isolation, then, for both of them. Which of them it would be worse on, Dean didn't know. Only that as he began taking books out of his bag, he never wanted to cry so much in his life. He had to bite his lower lip to keep it from shaking, to almost hold his breath against the tears. Waited till Dad had gone into the front bedroom and slammed the door, coffee cooling in a mug that sat forgotten on the counter. All the warmth gone out of the room. For a moment, he lowered his forehead until it touched the top of the table. Let his chest shake, and his face tighten up, and thought he was going to die. And the candy hadn't even tasted good.

Dad came out of the front bedroom and then went out to the Impala. Dean heard him opening and shutting the doors with extra force. Then, with a slam, Dad was in the trailer, filling it up. Angry, still. Then he came over to Dean, to where Dean sat with his pencil in his hands, a stack of books at his elbow, and an empty sheet of paper in front of him.

"Dean."

Dean folded the pencil between his two hands till it threatened to break.

"Dean, look at me."

Dean looked up, raising his face till he was looking in Dad's eyes, which glittered hard and were narrowed.

"What is going on with you, son? This isn't like you, lying to me."

It took Dean a minute to figure out what Dad was saying. What Dad was asking him. Dean knew he could figure it out, he just needed a little more time. Besides, Dad always liked it more when his boys figured out their own problems. It would make them into men, into hunters, one day.

Dean shrugged. "New school," he said. "It's not like the others."

"None of them are like the others, Dean, so that's not an answer."

Dean blinked. Still looking at Dad, seeing the tired lines on the familiar face, the dark, watchful eyes. The mouth, not smiling. "I don't know," he said, finally. "I just thought-"

"Thought you were being clever? Pulling a fast one on the old man?"

This made Dean nod. It was as good an answer as any. "Yeah. Dumb, huh?"

Dad nodded, hands on his hips, but his shoulders relaxed, now that his point had been made. "Pulling a fast one is not the problem, pulling one on me, is. You got that, Dean?"

Dean nodded. Dad went to the top of the fridge and pulled out the candy.

"Don't know that I should let you keep this candy," he said, his eyes stern. "At the very least you're grounded for a week from gallivanting off to the 7-11."

Chewing on his lip, Dean felt his eyes grow hot. "Half of it's Sammy's," he managed around the hardness in his throat. "Don't take Sammy's candy, Dad, please?"

In the silence, Dad put in front of Dean one piece of each kind of candy to eat while he did his homework, even though the gummi's and the peanut butter cups were Sam's. Which Dad knew. Then he took the same amount into the back room and came back, shutting the door carefully behind him, as though he'd just gotten done feeding a tiger and wanted to make sure it didn't get out. The message was clear. They were to finish their homework and give Dad some peace and quiet.

"You can have more tomorrow. And you will use your lunch money on lunches, is that understood?"

"Yes, Dad."

Then Dad went into the front bedroom and closed the door behind him.

Dean let himself shake. Watched the paper on the table wrinkle as his tears fell.

 

 ****

 **Saturday, November 25 th, 2006**

When Sam woke up, before he opened his eyes, he sensed that Dean was already awake. Or, by the stillness, that he'd been up for hours. Perhaps that he'd not fallen asleep at all.

"Dean?" he asked, testing the waters.

"Yeah," said Dean right away, as if he'd been waiting for Sam's question.

"Breakfast?" Sam asked now.

"Yeah," said Dean again, though, if possible, with less enthusiasm than before. As if giving in rather than fighting the battle.

It was going to be a long day, Sam could tell that already. His eyes were full of grit, and his lips felt like stretched leather when he moved them.

"We need to find where the body is buried," he said." He tried swallowing the dryness in his throat. It was like trying to swallow sand.

"We need to find the files," said Dean.

Sam heard him sitting up and peeled back his eyelids to see Dean on the edge of the other bed, rubbing his face, his back to Sam.

"Files?

"Yeah, of those kids. All those kids."

This seemed rather cryptic, even for Dean, and Sam wondered if the whole child molestation thing was finally getting to him. Twenty years was a long time to be plucking under-aged fruit without getting caught, it was only too bad that the bastard hanged himself before the courts and the convicts got to him. "What will we do with the files when we find them?"

Dean shrugged. "Give them to the principal, I guess. She'll know what to do with them."

It wasn't like Dean to have so much faith in a school principal, but it made sense. Sam pushed himself out of bed and for a moment they sat knee to knee. Sam in boxers and t-shirt, Dean in sweatpants and the hoodie, even though the room was boiling.

"How's that cold?" He asked this almost under his breath, berating himself for being so hesitant. But he was in no mood to get kicked in the teeth.

"Still kicking me in the ass," said Dean, replying at the same level. For a moment he looked at Sam. Right in the eyes and then away as if he wanted to tell him something. Down went that chin, tucking to the right. The preparation for a fight or the approach of something difficult. It scared Sam; he didn't like that expression on Dean's face and he'd been seeing it a lot lately.

"Dean-"

Dean stood up, moving past Sam as if he'd not spoken, moving like an old man. The conversation was over before it had begun.

"Yeah," said Sam, putting in as much sarcasm as he could muster. "You go ahead. I'll wait."

Dean just gave him the finger. As the door shut behind his brother, there was nothing Sam could do but agree.

*

Breakfast was an improvement on the previous day but only because Dean ordered food without hesitating. It didn't mean that he ate any of it, which considering how good everything smelled when it arrived was pretty weird. The coffee, which Sam laced liberally with cream and sugar, wasn't even burnt.

"Aren't you going to eat that?" he asked, waving his fork in the direction of Dean's still full plate. "Sausage omelet, your favorite."

"You can stop now," said Dean, pushing his plate away. He reached for his black coffee and took a huge swallow.

"Stop what?"

"Fussing like an old woman."

He made himself not say else anything to Dean about it. He'd managed at the onset to finagle it so that Dean was sitting in the seat where the sun was coming through the window. But though his brother was wrapped in layers like a harbor seal, it seemed to make a little improvement. At least Dean wasn't shivering. Sam wondered how long he was going to let Dean keep him from finding out what was going on.

"Do we have bones to burn?" asked Dean. He took a swallow of his coffee. His hand did not shake, but he was clenching the cup so hard his fingertips were white.

"When I track down where he's buried, we will." This said around a mouthful of pancakes.

"Tell you what," said Dean. He pushed his eggs around the plate with his fork. "I'll drop you off where you can get wi-fi, you can research that."

"What about you?"

"I'll head out to the school and look for files."

Sam felt his brow furrow. He couldn't figure out what was wrong with this picture. Dean bundled up for a blizzard, not eating, and, what was strangest of all, volunteering to go back to a school that he hated. This occurred to Sam all at once. It wasn't anything he'd said, he never said _this place sucks out loud_ or anything. He'd never even so much as spat on the sidewalk, come to that. It wasn't his behavior when they'd met with Phil, necessarily, though Dean's reluctance to go into the boiler room had been noticeable, though only momentary.

No, it was the now Dean's white fingered grip on his cup, freckles standing out on his skin like dots. The way he was pretending to eat, on purpose trying to hide it from Sam that no food as yet had passed his lips.

All at once a shiver ran through Dean.

Sam took a breath. "You going to tell me what's going on? Or do I have to beat it out of you?"

In answer, Dean stood up and as he did he jarred the table. His cup and black coffee spilled out like inky lava. As Dean stared down at him, his eyes glittered. Then his shoulders set themselves like he was trying not to be mad.

"Look, I'm just not hungry, okay? There's a wi-fi café down the street. You call me when you want to break for lunch, an' I'll come get you."

A waitress came over to wipe up the coffee spill. She partially blocked Sam's view of Dean.

"Where are you going?" asked Sam, craning around her. Dean was reaching into his wallet, and pulled out a ten. He handed it to Sam as if he was paying him to shut the hell up.

"To the school, like I said," said Dean. He buttoned up his jacket and began walking away. Over his shoulder, he said, "To look for files."

Then he was out the door and walking past the bank of windows not looking up as if Sam wasn't even there.

The sun shone through the glass and all over Sam and the greasy food smell got hot. But the seat across from him was empty, the food untouched. Sam grew cold and shivered.

*

The coffee shop was fairly new but decorated to look like an old-time hangout where the real Boulderites went. If there was such a thing as a real Boulderite. Sam doubted it; the newspaper articles he was looking at while scanning for Gunnarson's obit told the story. Everyone was from someplace else. Hence, the need which came across as slightly desperate, to create a sense of history out of a spot that had recently been razed to the ground and built out of fresh new concrete and bricks.

At least the coffee was good, though expensive. He could taste the espresso shooting directly into his veins as he took a swallow and then licked the whip cream from his lips. Dean, who preferred his working man's black cup of Joe, did not know what he was missing.

A few clicks on the down arrow brought him to the obit section of The Daily Camera. He calculated the date six month's prior, which brought him to the end of May, 2005. He'd only had to scan through a few editions of the paper before he'd found it. The obit didn't give him any details about the suicide or who had found the body only a history of Gunnarson's age, place of employment for how many years and known survivors, of whom there was none. It was a sad ending to such a life, devoted to a school where the word of a lying punk kid could bring him down. But the obit did give Sam the exact death date, the correct and full spelling of the name, Royal A. Gunnarson, and the county of residence. All of these would prove helpful when hacking into Boulder County records for the death certificate and place of burial.

He wrote down the information on his notepad. If anything about Gunnarson the Ghost turned out to be significant, he would transfer that information to his journal. This was a slight improvement over the way Dad had done things, as Dad had written everything in there in the hopes that it would prove to be important one day. The end result was that Dad's journal was a jumbled mess, now Dean's problem, whereas Sam's journal, though tidy, was mostly empty. Maybe Dad's way was better, though, for who was to say which information was significant and which was not?

Taking another swallow of espresso, he spread his fingers out over the keyboard to stretch them. He made and unmade fists to get the blood going. Then he drummed his fingers at the edge of the keyboard. Boulder County was not some backwater town with one sheriff and no resources. Nor was it new to Internet technology. No, with IBM, NOAA, NCAR, and Ball Aerospace right in town, Boulder was on the forefront of double encryption, passwords that were changed every 90 days, and key codes issued to only a specialized few and carried around like talismans.

Sam gave in to the urge to crack his knuckles. Next to map reading and navigating Dean and the Impala back and forth across the country, this was his favorite part of the job. Besides, he could bury himself in this and not worry about Dean for a little while. Just an hour or two. Later though he would suggest a six-pack and maybe some shots. Get Dean talkative. And find out what the hell he'd locked away so hard and so far.

*

It took him three hours and two more shots of espresso (with whipped cream) till he was able to dig down to the death certificate and burial statement. Death by asphyxiation, it said for the official record, which did not surprise Sam. Nor the condition of the body, considering how active a janitor would be. What did surprise him was the coroner's note, which was handwritten and had been scanned in after the fact. It confirmed suicide by hanging, but as an afterthought, as if someone hadn't wanted that bit of information to be included and had almost convinced the coroner of this. But whoever Walter Murphy was, he was honest to a fault and the information was all there.

As was the police report, which indicated that Gunnarson had been found Monday morning, after hanging for three days, by the then principal of the school, Mr. Mates. Perhaps the shock of finding his friend still and blue had been enough to propel Mates into retirement from his beloved school, but it was odd that he'd not mentioned all this when Sam and Dean had talked to him. It was weird but not relevant; Sam chalked it up to the long list of things that people often though were not important. He wrote it down on the notepad anyway, just in case.

There was even a trio of photographs of the man, probably because someone couldn't decide whether or which one should go in the paper with the obit notice. None of them had. All of them showed an older man with short, grey hair, and glasses. He had a wide jaw, and wasn't smiling. Sam flipped through these fast; he didn't care what Gunnarson looked like.

The last scan was the burial certificate, which included the cost of the coffin and the date and place of interment: Valmont Cemetery. It seemed a strange name for a cemetery and when Sam googled it, he found that the location was far east of town on a ridge, far away from the refined likes of Mountain View, the historic 9th Street Pioneer's Haven, and the modern cemetery on the Diagonal. Valmont Cemetery was old as well and almost no longer used; from the records, it looked like it was going to shut down. There'd been no new burials there for years. Only Gunnarson's. He'd probably bought the plot years ago, which was why Valmont had not refused him.

Though why Sam cared was beyond him.

He tapped his pen on the table. After a minute, a waitress came over to ask if he wanted a refill. He was about to smile and refuse with the old joke that if she did bring him more espresso, she'd have to scrape him off the ceiling. Instead, he saw her watch and looked at his own. It was past one o'clock. Time had flown for him, but surely Dean would have called him as agreed, cranky or not.

"No thanks," he told the waitress. "I'm good here."

He called Dean on the cell phone but there was no answer. Thinking that Dean was on his way, he didn't leave a message. Instead he swallowed the last cold dregs of his espresso, folded up his laptop and waited.

Half an hour later, he was still waiting. He tried the cell phone, but still had no luck and no answer. He left a quick message then was about to shut the phone when he realized that Dean wasn't coming. He would never forget to pick up Sam; that he had never happened in the history of Winchester unless something was wrong.

Dialing the number again, he left a quick message. "I'm walking to you," he said. "You owe me lunch and not Chinese."

*

With a mental map of Boulder in his head and his leather bag slung across his chest, Sam began walking south along 28th Street. This would take him to Baseline where he would head east. When he got to the intersection, he passed under the bridge where the highway traffic raced overhead. And realized, after a minute or two of startled recognition, that he knew exactly where he was. That he'd been there before. And that he knew exactly how much of a walk it was from this point to the trailer where they'd live for a short while.

Of course, the 7-11 had been converted into a noodle joint, but the basic geography was still the same. The McDonalds was still there, as were the wide cement sidewalks, the red stone towers for student housing, and the scarcity of trees amidst the backdrop of the Flatirons that rose up like sentinels against the sky with such imposing force all of a sudden that Sam was surprised at how easily he could forget they were there.

And rather how easily his memories rose of the day he and Dean had walked to the 7-11 to buy candy one Saturday morning with Dean's lunch money, as he recalled. Dad had been pissed about that and had yelled at them both. Or, actually, to be very honest, had lectured in a very hard voice, which to Dean was the same thing as being yelled at. Dad had separated them to do their homework as part of the punishment, and when Dad let Sam out of the back room, Dean had been white-faced. Dad had practically not let them have the candy, but had relented. Sam could remember his stomachache and Dad shaking his head, handing him a glass of water with baking soda stirred in.

As he started walking east, Sam saw the pattern though he didn't want to. Dean hadn't eaten lunch for more than a week to get that money. Whether or not he'd been eating anything else at the time, Sam didn't remember. He had no picture in his head that he could associate with the then Dean not eating. But he certainly wasn't eating now. Sam had watched him up close and personal and though it wasn't like he wasn't always up close and personal, but he could trace it all from practically, if not exactly, to the point when he'd announced the job in Boulder. Something was up with Dean only Sam didn't know what.

He kept walking.

As he was walking, the clouds rolled in and it began to snow. Just like that. He looked at his watch - it was nearing 2:30. By the time he got to Dean and if it kept snowing, it'd be too cold to dig, though burning bones could provide a nice little bonfire, albeit a smelly one since the bones were only six months old.

The snow continued all the way along Baseline as he walked, spitting down like ragged white leaves. It got cold enough so that his jacket, adequate that morning to walk to the diner, began to feel too thin. He passed churches and apartments buildings, and homes, and the snow got thick. Just as the road narrowed and the houses thinned out to country, he stopped and looked up. There it was. The trailer.

The trailer was white in the falling snow, the long side of it paralleling the road. Which only made sense. In windy winters, if you had a trailer with the long side into the wind, it was liable to get blown over. And either it was his kid's mind, painting a nicer picture of the past, or the rust had grown over the years, because now there was rust along the seams; he'd not remembered that. The roof sagged. The windows were spotted and seamed like an old man's skin. The snow coming down through the spindly aspen in the yard made everything look soft. Gentled, somehow, as if the hardness of living in a singlewide on a vacant lot that abutted a junkyard wasn't such a bad life after all.

He had a sudden picture in his head of another snowy evening, the Impala parked out front, and the three of them inside while the wind blew and the frost climbed up the thin windows. Dad had come home from a hunt one night, suddenly. Unexpected, stomping snow from his boots on the metal stairs, his arms ladened with take-out Chinese food. Sam remembered that Dean had been about to make him peanut butter and jelly with potato chips crushed in to make it extra salty. They'd been out of milk so Sam hadn't been looking forward to it. Snow from Dad's boots had stuck to the carpet by the floor and melted like acid on Sam's bare feet as they hung on him.

Good natured, Dad had parceled out the contents of the brown bag before even taking off his coat, though he had snapped at Dean to _turn the damn heat down and what the hell did I say about that_?

Sam remembered looking at Dean and then turned to the memory now. Dean had been bundled up in one of Dad's wool sweaters, his newest jeans and socks. He'd had to roll up the sleeves to eat, had gotten stains on the old sweater that nobody minded. And they'd all stayed up till past midnight on a school night playing War and Spit, Spoons and Bullshit. It was the only time swearing would help you win. Dad had laughed like anything each time Sam shouted it at the top of his lungs.

And now, more bullshit. And two patterns. Constant cold and not eating, and, he remembered now, nightmares, which had always been more his thing than Dean's. He could add not sleeping to the list but he couldn't. That was only happening in the now. Still it was enough to go after Dean with a six-pack and a tot of Jagermesiter. If they could make it to the liquor store before the roads got too clogged up.

Sam turned his head till he couldn't see the trailer anymore, looked at the snow drifting down like cotton for a minute, and then started walking. The school was only a mile along the road. Sam made it in good time, speeding up to a dogtrot, holding the laptop steady against his side. Going faster kept him warm, though his face felt numb by the time he crossed the school's parking lot to the Impala.

He touched the hood. It was cold and covered with a dusting of snow.

Dean was still at the school, had not gone anywhere. As to why he wasn't answering his cell phone, Sam felt he had the right to be pissed about that.

He walked up to the doors and opened them. Warm air pushed over him, like a kid rushing to get out, to go home. That the doors weren't locked didn't surprise him. Dean probably didn't expect anyone to try to get in. Plus he'd been in a damn stew about the files. Not that Sam knew what they would help if they did manage to find them. Dean knew, though. He had it all planned in his head.

Sam strolled up the ramp, turning his head and looking. The lights were half banked, but he could still see the X's like a swarm of bees covering the pale green paint on the large, smooth interior brick. There weren't many lockers open, either. Just the still, warm air and the silence.

Halfway up the ramp he stopped and looked around. There were no more X's, no more lockers opened. Considering what the EMF said, it was likely that Gunnarson had hidden the files where he'd felt most comfortable. In his own office. Dean had probably seen the pattern of the and come to the same conclusion. Why he'd not seen fit to share that with his own brother was another mystery. Sam intended to find it out, along with everything else.

The boiler room seemed to be where the focus of the ghost's energy was, plus the source of whatever affected Dean, so he decided to go there first. He went down the short corridor, into the darkness, towards the slender light of the far window in a door leading to the outside, through which he could see the snow coming down. It was colder as well, and the boiler room door was open. Sam was almost used to this, used to the spooky and the creepy, but had never quite acclimated himself to it as Dad and Dean seemed to have done. They could wade into a fortress of ghosts, up to their hips in ectoplasm and never bat an eye. For him though, it was a different story. He believed in ghosts like a five year old believed in Santa. And they scared him. Still.

He opened the door to the boiler room all the way. Perhaps on account of the fact that all the lights were out save one, and that the frost of winter flew up the stairs at him, he did not call out. If he called out, he would disturb the silence, more, he would alert whatever was down there that he was coming. As silently as he could, he went down the stairs and along the cement lined passageway, the boilers and blowers blinking their tiny red eyes at him as he went by. Ahead, in the janitor's office, there was a light on. The door was open; frost rimmed the doorjamb. And nothing moved. Nothing.

Going closer, he drew his jacket closer. The snow had melted on his shoulders in the school hallway. Now the dampness was turning to an icy claw. They'd be pumping the heater out on the way back to the motel, that was for sure. Otherwise, yeah, pneumonia for both of them. He was sure for all of Dean's bundling that morning, that he wasn't dressed warmly enough either.

Stepping through the doorway, he was aware of how still the air was, how cold. Like a walk-in freezer in a cheap restaurant, cold enough to burn flesh. He looked around, the naked bulb overhead making his eyes tired and dry. The silence was loud enough to hear the clock ticking, the face of it warped by the spoon shaped dent over the 10. Sam moved into the room and heard a sound. There in the corner, on the other side of the couch, was Dean. He'd shoved himself as far into the cement wall as he could go without actually pushing his body into the narrow darkness that led under the auditorium. His whole body was shaking, eyes closed. Jaw tamped down, head tucked, rolling himself into a ball.

Without thinking, Sam moved. His hands were on Dean before he spoke, his mouth opening over Dean's name without any sound coming out. But Dean heard him, blinking, looking up, squinting as if into a bright, warm light.

"'am?"

"Yeah, Dean, I'm here."

Sam wanted to pull Dean to his feet, right then and there, and carry him out of the janitor's office, away from the school forever. He'd never seen his brother like this, with grey-white skin and that horrible glazed look in his eyes. But the body beneath his hands, arms and shoulders, was quivering as though spasms were ramping through him. If Sam pulled him upright, it would hurt. And that was the last thing Dean needed.

"Did Gunnarson the Ghost get you?" he asked, clasping the back of Dean's neck.

"Whu'?" Dean tried moving his mouth and shook his head. Wincing. "No." His breath was a pant. "I mean, the ghos' yeah...."

Ghosts could pull all of the energy from a room faster than you could spit. Why Dean hadn't hightailed it out of there at the first signs of this, or protected himself with salt, confused Sam. That Dean'd not done any of these things was a sign how distracted he was. Frustration rose in Sam's throat like brambles growing out of a well. He wanted to yell. He wanted to bring Dean to task. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. Now. But none of these things was going to help.

Kneeling by Dean he felt the cold seeping out of Dean's body. He tested the pulse along Dean's neck, and the skin there felt like cold meat.

"Not dyin'," said Dean, twitching his head away.

"We got to get you warmed up and out of here," said Sam. "It's snowing. Is there a blanket somewhere?"

Dean blinked at him, and taking a breath, shook his head. Which could have meant _no_ or _I don't know_ or who knows what.

Sam stood up and looked around. The room was less icy than it had been a minute ago, which meant that the ghost was affronted by the fact that there were two of them in the room. Backing off. Looking for its files. Though, like Dean had pointed out, there wasn't much it could do with them once it found them. Just hover over them, or at least until the hard salt and burn job that Sam and Dean would perform in the morning.

He went over to the green couch. Phil had mentioned it was a foldout couch at one point, but that he'd never been able to get it open. Foldout couches had uncomfortable mattresses and that damn bar along the middle that just hit you at hip level. Sometimes, as well, they had blankets and sheets. Bending down, he pulled at the strap. He put his foot on the edge and hefted with both arms and his back. The thing flew open. Better not tell Phil he was too weak to best an old foldout couch. And there was a blanket. Sam lifted it up, dust flew off the ratty brown fibers. And underneath there was a box, which was why, he could see, that the couch had jammed shut. The box had pushed up into the bar and the springs.

Quickly he furled the blanket around Dean's shoulders, resisting the urge to tuck and pat.

"It's getting warmer already," he said. "What possessed you not to come protected with salt, knowing there was a ghost on the loose?"

Dean shrugged.

Then the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stood up.

"What?" asked Dean.

"Couch," said Sam. "There's a box that was jammed in there."

"Box?"

Dean stood up faster than Sam could have thought possible. The blanket flew from his shoulders and he marched over, pushing Sam to once side. He reached down and tore at the cardboard, flinging the lid aside. And there, stacked like naughty soldiers, were the files. Sam knew it even before Dean pulled one of them out. He only looked at the tab of one of them before nodding and putting it back. The files weren't theirs to read, of course not. Sam didn't want to know what was in any of them anyway.

"Yeah," said Dean. "That's what he was looking for. All these months."

"The kid was right," said Sam. "Not a lying liar after all."

"Not by half."

They stood there for a minute. Sam had his hands on his hips and didn't feel cold anymore. But Dean, at his side, shivered.

"What'll we do with the files?"

"Told you," said Dean. "We give them to the principal. She can process them and we can stay out of the limelight."

"Yeah," said Sam. It would be satisfying to know, really know that all those boys would be helped by the discovery of the files, even though it made his stomach feel nasty at the thought of how many there had been. There was a whole legal storage box full of files. Thick files. Fifty of them. Maybe more. Dean was right; the principal would be the best person to handle it. After all, he and Dean couldn't stick around for the legal mess that would result. They had to be moving on. As always.

"Let's get out of here," said Dean.

Sam nodded.

"You take an end."

Sam bent to force his fingers between the box and the gritty cement floor. It wasn't as heavy as it was bulky. At some point dampness had softened the cardboard in places. He shifted his hand to compensate. When the box was just out of the couch, Dean dropped his end right on Sam's toe.

"Damnit, Dean!" Sam hopped away, rubbing his sneakered foot. "Shit, shit, shit! If you couldn't hold onto it, you could have said so for fuck's sake."

He looked up. Dean had his hands behind his back, his face a blank. "If you can't hold up your end, you should have said so. For fuck's sake."

"Jerk," said Sam. He straightened up and then moved to the couch to grab and end of the box. "It's not all that heavy, I'll just carry it. Okay?"

"Don't be such a baby," said Dean. "I'll take half. I won't drop it again, I promise."

He didn't. The two of them managed to get the box up the stairs and into the back seat of the Impala while Dean muttered about it polluting his vinyl seats forever. The snow was coming down hard, flecking out of the sky and through the parking lot lights like sharp white bullets.

"We can do an exorcism of the bad mojo later, Dean," said Sam. "For now, in case you haven't noticed, it's snowing. And we are woefully underdressed, or at least I am, so-"

Dean turned back to the school, leaving Sam standing by the open door of the Impala.

"Where are you going?"

"I've got to lock up the school."

"Oh for Pete's sake," said Sam, mostly to himself, partly to the air. Of course Dean was right, he just wanted to get the hell out of there. He'd not had lunch and his feet felt like blocks of ice. Except for his mashed toe. That was on fire. His laptop, even inside its leather case was probably also feeling the effects of the weather.

Dean had the keys to the Impala and had locked back up, automatically, so Sam had to wait, rubbing his arms, moving from foot to foot, standing in the lee of the car to cut the wind. It didn't help much, the snow piled up on his eyelashes thick enough to blind, and the wind found every wrinkle in his clothes. Pneumonia was a very likely possibility at this point.

When Dean came back, it was growing darker, the night coming down like a hammer in a way he didn't remember from when he was a kid. The clouds were setting low below the edge of the front range as if the sky were falling on top of their heads.

"You going to make it, grandma?" asked Dean, unlocking the front door and leaning over to snap the passenger door open. Sam got in, shivering, feeling the dampness pushing into his skin like fine needles.

"Heat, please."

"You wait," said Dean. "You got to let a lady warm up first before you ask her to put out, you know."

"Oh, for shit, Dean," said Sam. He reached his hand over to snap on the heat, ignoring Dean's huff of displeasure. "I'm cold, I'm starving, you're driving me crazy. I just want to get back to the motel and out of the weather."

"Fine, you big whiner."

Dean let the car idle for a minute or two to the point where even Sam could hear the engine really catch and start throbbing like it was ready to go.

"I had to walk here, you know," he said, as Dean drove out of the parking lot. Sam pointed for him to turn left. "Do you recognize any of this?"

For a moment Dean didn't say anything, and then he took the next right on Baseline without being told. "Yeah, I do. We used to walk this way. Do you remember?"

"Yeah," said Sam. He remembered. Walking with Dean and being at the trailer were the majority of his memories. The times when Dean would walk fast and tease Sam to keep up. The couple of times Dean had looked positively sick coming out of the school, but insisted he had a cold or something mild like that. Sam remembered the wind in their faces. The hard sunlight that didn't warm anything. "I passed by our old trailer on the way here."

"Oh yeah?"

This perked Dean up, so Sam kept his eyes peeled. When they were coming closer, he pointed. "You can pull in actually, and take a look."

It was seldom that they were near any of their old stomping grounds, places that they'd stayed for more than a day or two. Sam didn't know whether it was because there was nothing more to keep them around after a hunt was finished, or the sentimentality of the Winchester family had been burned out long ago; either was as likely as the other.

Dean pulled into the gravel drive, and it struck Sam how the Impala was making the same tracks as it had all those years ago. Dean remembered too, Sam could tell. He turned to Sam, and smiled, his eyes sparkling.

"Remember?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Sam. "Dad came and went, but it felt safe here. It was-"

"What do you mean, safe? Dad always kept us safe."

Another fight in the brewing. Sam made himself not respond to this, to the intent. "I'm not saying that he didn't Dean, if you'd listen for a minute."

He waited.

"I'm listening," said Dean.

"It felt safe because it was our place. We moved in. We had an address that was not a motel. Dad was there as much as he was gone. And you looked after me when he wasn't."

Dean nodded, his eyes on the trailer, the snow coming down past the headlights like thick lace. It was hard to see the roofline, and the rust was hidden beyond the bright lights.

"It got cold in there sometimes," Dean said, conceding. "Luckily we had that space heater. The damn furnace never seemed to be able to cut it."

"No," Sam said to agree. He dipped his head, feeling the pleasure of the better memories. Him and Dean fighting over pudding, cleaning it off the wall before Dad found out. The bits they'd never been able to get off the ceiling. The Saturday morning cartoons. Him waking up to Dean's nightmares.

He looked up. He remembered sometimes Dean waking up in the middle of the night so forcefully that he'd woken Sam up, too. The bed would shake and Sam would reach out, touching the top of Dean's head, or stroking his shoulder to get him to quiet down. To wake his brother up and let the nightmare go away. This usually worked, but Dean was always surprised to see Sam there. There'd been several mornings where he'd woken to feel Dean curled up against him as if for warmth or something else that Dean never talked about, even though Sam had known it was because of the nightmares. For a while there, Sam had felt like the big brother, the protector. He'd liked it in a way, liked being counted on, but Dean had not wanted to admit to any nightmares, nor expressed any gratitude for unasked for comfort.

"Remember Dad falling asleep in the Dad chair to the news?" asked Dean.

This startled him. It wasn't like Dean to reminisce at all. That was Sam's gig. But Sam played along. "He always had it on too loud and wouldn't let us change the channel."

"Forgot to take his boots off too, sometimes."

"The carpet was a goner the second we moved in."

The Impala sighed and Dean patted the wheel. "She doesn't like sitting here. She wants to keep moving forward."

Sam thought that of course Dean meant himself. It wasn't the first time he'd used the car as his voice. "Okay. Let's go."

Dean put the Impala in reverse and backed out across the snow. The tires spun a bit, making a silky sound, and he laid his arm across the back seat to check his path. Then, as he pulled out onto Baseline, Sam thought he heard his brother say, "I'm just surprised it's still here, is all."

"Yeah," said Sam in the quiet warm air of the cab of the Impala. "Yeah."

With the snow making the wipers do double time, Dean drove for a minute, and then asked, "Who's hungry? Who's for Chinese?"

"I said no Chinese, Dean." Sam still felt damp through and sneaked a hand out to turn up the heater. "I left you a message about it. Besides, you owe me. We've had Chinese every day since we got here."

"Chinese is good for you. It's got vegetables."

"It's also got MSG."

"Not that Fan's place we went to on Thanksgiving. They said so on the menu."

"Dean," said Sam. Then he stopped. He remembered the night Dad brought home Chinese food. It had probably been soaked through with MSG, what difference did it matter now. "If we get Chinese, will you at actually eat some instead of just pretend?"

"Pretend?" asked Dean. He looked at Sam. "I don't pretend to eat. I eat all the time."

"Could have fooled me." Sam chewed on his lip and tried to imagine that he wasn't cold or tired or hungry. That his brother was going to be the death of him. That the job they'd taken in Boulder wasn't all fucked up. That he couldn't suddenly remember the image of his brother from years ago, sitting on the couch cross-legged, slurping up lo mein and laughing so hard the noodles came back out. The night Dad had come home early, stomping snow from his boots. Dean had eaten then. Maybe he'd eat now.

"Alright. Fans. But what about dropping the files off?"

"We can do that on the way."

Sam sighed and pulled out his cell phone, trying not to help Dean negotiate the roads that were starting to feel slippery under the Impala's road weary tires. It would just make Dean irritated; he might start driving faster. He called Audrey and told her what they'd found, what they wanted to do.

"That makes the most sense," she said. "I know you guys don't want to get involved with the police or anything."

"How do you know that?" asked Sam.

"What does she know?" asked Dean, looking over. Sam waved him away.

"My cousin told me," said Audrey. "He said you guys were like a modern day Robin Hood. The Robin Hood of Ghostbusters."

This made Sam laugh a little; he caught Dean's eye and shook his head.

"Just give me the directions. We're headed west on Baseline."

She gave them directions that took them south on Broadway, which proved to be a bit tricky on the left turn, since the turn lights were out, and Broadway was a six-lane street at that point. The snow, closer to the mountains, was coming down like a bed sheet, and the Impala's wipers almost couldn't keep up.

"We're not going to make it to Fan's," said Sam, as they pulled into Audrey's driveway.

"Then we'll go someplace closer," said Dean. He got out and slammed the door, and a second later, Sam felt the jar of the car as Dean opened the passenger seat door. "Help me with this."

Sam got out, instantly shivering, wishing they could have gone back to the motel to get warmer, dryer clothes before doing this. But Dean was in a big deal hurry to get rid of the files, and Sam couldn't actually blame him. He figured if it wasn't snowing, and so cold, and if Dean' hadn't dropped the box on his foot, and if he'd actually gotten lunch, he'd be feeling a whole lot better. Hot and sour soup was starting to sound better all the time.

With both of them trying to carry the brunt of the weight of the box, and the fact the path was only one person-width wide, both of them had to walk in the snow. Sam's feet were soaked through; he imagined that Dean's were too. Maybe they could get the Chinese delivered.

Audrey was there before they even rang the bell. She had her housecoat on, and behind her, Sam could see the bright glare of the TV.

"You boys are out in the weather, I see." But this was just idle chitchat. "Are those the files?"

"Yeah," said Sam. He dipped his head, feeling bad. Not that taking the files away would have helped anything, but the fact that they were there to bring. All those boys. Years of silence. And the one poor bastard who'd had the courage to speak up.

She motioned for them to put them just inside the door. Then she opened her mouth as if to invite them in for coffee or something, but Dean was already backing away.

"We have to get going," he said. "And we won't have time to clean all those X's off the walls. We have to bug out before the cops start poking around."

Sam nodded to agree with this. The snow was getting too thick to mess around with, coming down hard enough to make Sam worry. Tomorrow would be worse, and Dean had been fired up to leave the second they'd arrived in Boulder

"Drive safely, then," she said. "I'll tell Phil."

They got into the car, gone ice cold in their absence. Dean turned on the engine, and Sam waited while it heated up. He didn't dare touch the switch to turn on the heater any higher. If Dean was cold, chilled as he had constantly been, then it wasn't any wonder he didn't feel the lack of heat. Not even as the sun went down and the temperatures plummeted fast enough to make Sam feel like he was in one of those movies about failed expeditions to the South Pole.

"We won't make it to Fans," Sam said. "We'll be lucky enough to make it back to the motel."

Dean pulled out into the street, tires spinning. He obviously knew Sam was right and it was pissing him off. "I think I saw a Chinese place near the motel. The food probably sucks there."

Sam didn't say anything. Sometimes Chinese restaurants had, inexplicably, hamburgers. He wondered if they would be any good.

They weren't. It was a whiteout by the time they got to the motel, and Dean volunteered to go get the food. Sam put in his call for a cheeseburger, and Dean obediently bought two back for him. Plus some chocolate pudding, which he knew Sam loved. The food was bad, but the company had gotten better, now that Sam could control the heater, and Dean was content to have Chinese food. Even bad Chinese food. They each sat on their respective avocado green bedspreads, munched in tandem, and watched an old black and white movie. Dean was the one who had found it. While Sam had been unloading the food, Dean had flicked through the channels, and settled on something Sam didn't recognize.

It didn't matter, though. Sam wasn't watching the movie, and Dean wasn't eating. The smell of over salty Chinese food filled the dry air.

"Dean."

"Don't start, Sam," said Dean. He pushed around his lo mein with a fork, but that was it.

"But you said you'd-"

"I'll eat tomorrow, I promise. My cold's almost gone now."

"Thought you said you never got colds?"

For this there was no answer. The black and white movie rumbled on, the tail ends of two bad cheeseburgers tanked in Sam's stomach, and if it wasn't snowing a whiteout outside, he'd have gone for a walk in a heartbeat. And not told Dean where he was going. As it was, he had to wish for antacids, or even some baking soda, and had to do without either. If Dean would remember to throw out the Chinese food, instead of leaving it out on the dresser, he might get enough sleep. At least he could try.

 ****

 **Monday, January 20 th, 1992**

Sunday had been a good day. After sleeping in, Dad had decided the stacked washer and dryer, being miniscule in size, would have taken too long so he'd piled the laundry and his boys into the Impala and gone to the laundromat. Which meant card games in the warm din, pizza at a local joint, where Dad snuck a beer, and there was as much pop for the boys they could fit into their stomachs. And afterwards, piles of warm laundry to sit on as they drove home. During which, he and Dad decided, though he knew Dad had really decided, that Sammy and he could keep Sam's change to buy candy with, and if they'd been good and done their homework, Dad would add to the pile.

It would be on an honor system, to which Dean swore he'd never break. Dad had tousled his hair and laughed and knew that much was certain. Sammy in the back seat had only grunted, but Dean knew he'd follow the honor system too, as much as he might complain about it.

As he went into the school on Monday, Dean was resolved. It hit him the second he opened the front door to feel the whoosh of warm, lemon-lime air, the din of kids finding their way to class. The far off boom of something heavy being moved. He was ready. He had all of his homework done, his eyes burned from doing it, his tongue dotted with several sugar sores. The candy was all gone, Sam had had a headache that morning, which Dad said was his own fault for going overboard. Followed up by the parental admonishment _just because there's a bag of candy in front of you doesn't mean you have to eat it all, Sam._

 __

In science class, he handed a worksheet in and got a check plus from the teacher. Gym sucked, of course, but that was because Joel was back, and had somehow saved up enough energy to focus almost entirely on Dean. Who danced away from the towel snaps, ignored the jibes, and who pretended it was an accident when Joel smashed him into a wall. This was easy. Joel would never make a hunter. Dean would. English and math went much the same as science class; he was able to hand stuff in, to which his teachers nodded and smiled, and everyone seemed much happier with him, so it was okay.

When the lunch bell rang, Dean took his dollar and marched himself into the lunchroom, to get lunch, like Dad had ordered. He got in one of the two lines that snaked along each wall. Casting his eyes around the room, he told himself his heart was not pounding and that his armpits weren't damp with pools of sweat. He'd helped Dad with ghosts, which were a lot scarier than one janitor. Right? He told himself this was true.

Sounds and voices bounced off from the smooth walls, and Dean kept hearing the rattle of the garbage can on wheels, but each time he checked, there were only students and teachers. At one point, when Dean was at the head of the line and about the enter the serving area, a lady janitor came in with a little sprayer and clean rags to clean off the tables with, but that was okay. He was going to be okay.

Lunch was pizza and corn, iced brownie and sweet milk. Dean carried his tray to a table where he could sit with his back to the wall. He was eating lunch; he was doing what he was supposed to do. Everything except the corn could be eaten with his fingers so that allowed him to keep his eyes on the door. No one came. He hurried anyway, inhaled the corn in three huge bites and then carried his tray up to the counter, putting his silverware in the large metal bowl of warm soapy water like the other kids. Then he turned around.

Gunnarson was at the door, talking to a teacher and watching the boys as they came in and left. Dean felt his breath catch as his throat slammed shut. It was like walking into an ice box after a hot day; the warmth and movement of the lunch room froze into shards. He backed up as slowly as he could and reached for the wall. If he kept still, kept it slow, he could sneak out the other set of doors. If Gunnarson didn't turn this way, if Dean kept his heart from beating so loud surely the entire room could hear it.

It didn't. And Gunnarson didn't. Dean's armpits had circles of sweat under them by the time he got to geography class. It was going to be okay, as long as he was in class.

After school was another matter. Joel and two of his buddies were waiting outside the front door, where the buses had not yet come. When he backed into the school to avoid them, they followed, and Dean found himself pelting down the hall, looking for an exit. To be hunter didn't mean taking on every battle you came across. You had to pick when and where and with whom. Today was not that day. Not for Joel.

But Dean's feet had taken him down the wrong hallway, almost as if they'd had a different plan in mind than his head or his chest. His mind went into a blank place, where he couldn't feel anything, not even his hammering heart.

Dean let Mr. Gunnarson lead him down the stairs, heard the door snap shut, knew that Joel and his friends would not find him, not today. The boilers were humming and clicking, geared up from the cold day, the dust spread and whirling in the jeweled light. In the janitor's office, Mr. Gunnarson took the messenger bag, now full of books, from off Dean's shoulder. Then he took off Dean's coat, and for a second, Dean let him. Didn't say anything. Until Mr. Gunnarson sat in his rolling wooden chair and patted his thigh for Dean to come and sit down.

Dean stood his ground. "Mr. Gunnarson, I don't want to do this anymore."

"Now, Dean you don't mean that."

"Yes, I do, I don't want to do this anymore."

"Yes, you do, Dean. You just don't think that you do."

"It's not right."

"And you're too young to know your own mind, so come here."

"No."

Mr. Gunnarson got up and reached for Dean. Dean backed away, but not fast enough. Mr. Gunnarson had hold of his arm and pulled on it. Hard. Dean tugged, but Mr. Gunnarson wouldn't let go, so Dean pulled his arm to his face and bit Mr. Gunnarson's hand.

Mr. Gunnarson froze. "Holy Christ," he said, looking at the place where Dean had bit him. It hadn't broken the skin, but it was enough to shock him into stillness. But when Dean bent to reach for his bag and his coat, Mr. Gunnarson was faster, grabbing Dean's shoulders with two hands and pulling him over to the desk.

"That was naughty, Dean, you know better. And you know you like this. You always have."

Like he was some other boy Gunnarson used to know.

The janitor sat down, pulling Dean with him, spinning the chair slightly so that Dean was trapped between the chair and the desk. To get out, he would have to get past the janitor and the chair, and there wasn't any room. But there was room the other way. Dean waited a minute, while Mr. Gunnarson straightened his thigh, reached for Dean to make him sit on it. Then Dean burst through and grabbed the monkey wrench sitting on the edge of the shelf. Swung it. Hit the chair. Swung it again, hit the desk, the filing cabinet. Almost hit Mr. Gunnarson in the head, but then decided to make a run for it. Something swung out and tripped him, and as he fell, hard on the concrete floor, he flung the wrench. It whistled past the janitor's head and hit the cage that surrounded the clock. Dented it, and clanged to the floor.

But he'd taken too much time with that, hadn't run when he'd had the chance, and part of his mind knew that if he did have a chance, he might have to sacrifice his coat and his bag of books to make it away. Sometimes it happened like that, so he was ready for that. But he wasn't ready for Mr. Gunnarson, standing over him while he slipped his belt off and folded it in half. With one foot, he pinned Dean to the spot, his boot heel on Dean's ankle as he raised the belt over his head.

Dad had never beaten them with anything, at most a swat to the backside with his hand when they were really out of order. Or a chuff to the head if he and Sam wrestled too hard in the back seat of the Impala as it rocketed down the highway. So Dean didn't know what to expect except that it couldn't be good. It wasn't. It was like fire wrapping around the backs of his legs, cutting into the soft front of his hips, eating through the denim of his jeans like he wasn't wearing anything. Feeling like it was ripping the skin from his legs, eating down to his bones.

He thought Mr. Gunnarson stopped at twenty, but he was barely breathing when Mr. Gunnarson grunted, and Dean sensed the flash of orange through the narrow frosted window that said the buses were there. That Sam's van would soon be there, if it wasn't already. And that Mr. Gunnarson had to let him go now.

Which he did. He put his belt back on and pulled Dean to his feet by one arm. He put Dean's coat on him, roughly, and shoved his grey messenger bag at him. Pushed him away.

"You've been a bad boy, Dean. You better behave yourself next time or else."

Dean wondered _or else what?_ As he walked away, he held his bag to his chest, his mouth narrowed against the black pain ripping up his legs and hips. Feeling, as he mounted the stairs, that the backs of his thighs were made of stiff wood. That the blood was boiling under his skin, cloth pushing against his welts like spikes.

When he got to the top of the stairs and opened the door, he thought he was going to scream out loud. But he made himself not, made himself sling the bag over his shoulder, unfold the strap so it lay evenly over his coat, and began to walk.

He ran into Mr. Collins in front of the auditorium. Mr. Collins patted him on the shoulder and leaned down to ask him something. Dean could almost hear it. Something about was everything okay. Dean nodded and smiled back, and hurried out. Met Sam, who waved a red mitten at him triumphantly as he got out of the van. Who also had a familiar looking dark blue knit cap on his head, which pushed his bangs even further over his eyes. That smile, ear to ear, dimples, helped Dean to smile back.

"I threatened him," said Sam in reply to the unanswered question.

"With what?" Dean heard himself ask.

"You." Sam cocked his head back as they walked, pretty pleased with himself, and Dean patted him on the head like he was making fun, but, really, it was the smart thing to do. The best battle to win was the one you never had to fight. At least that's what Dad said, though sometimes, Dean knew, it was fun to fight the battle anyway.

He kept up with Sam as best he could till they got to the corner, and they both stopped to button and zip up against the wind. And then Sam turned to him.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," said Dean, looking down on his little brother. "Why?"

"You're limping. And walking slow." This said with a derisive air, because even Sam knew that Winchesters walked fast. Always. Regardless.

"Maybe I feel like it." Shrugging.

Sam looked at him for a minute, like Dean was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. But the Winchester way, besides walking fast, was not to pry. Sam look like he wanted to, so Dean diverted him.

"Got any change?"

"Yeah," said Sam, pulling it out of his pocket and handing it over.

Dean took the forty-five cents. The money felt warm in his hand as he put it in his pocket. The rest of him felt cold all over.

"So can you put my mitten back on my string when we get home?"

"Sure," said Dean. He tried to walk faster, but his legs were now frozen and stiff. "And I'll show you how to make a good tight knot for it. For the next time."

"There won't be any next time," said Sam. His voice was dark, and Dean nodded his approval. Then felt his stomach rumble up into his throat as the sweat popped out on his forehead and spit built up in his mouth.

"Uh," said Dean. He could hardly get the words out as he motioned for Sam to wait a minute. With one hand out, he braced himself against a pole and tried to get his feet out of the way as he puked up his lunch. It splatted on the ground almost intact, as though he'd not chewed any of it before swallowing.

"Gross!" said Sammy. "Are you sick?"

"Uh," said Dean again. Standing up from the pole, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smelled the acidy fumes from his lunch. He took his foot and kicked some snow and dirt over the pile, trying not to catch Sam's eye. "Just a bad lunch is all. Let's go."

Sam stayed at his side all the way back to the trailer without saying a word.

*

Dean didn't sleep. He made himself not sleep, and, actually, that was rather easy. Even if he lay on his front, the blood pumped up and down the back of his legs like hot water through thin pipes. Every time he touched his legs and his backside, feeling under the elastic on his thigh, he felt like he was pressing against hard wood. He didn't want to get up and get some aspirin because that would make it more real somehow. And if he fell asleep, he might have another nightmare, and he didn't want Sammy to know that. So it was best just to stay where he was, head buried in his arms on the pillow, hearing Sam's inhales and exhales, listening to the thrum of the furnace trying to build itself up against the cold. Besides, Dad would be home by the weekend and by that time he would be better. Everything would be all right.

 

 ****

 **Sunday, November 26th, 2006**

Sam hadn't set the alarm, so in the morning when he woke up, he knew it was late. A glance at the clock told him it was about 10 o'clock. Another glance told him that Dean had managed to doze off fully dressed. The Chinese food, as well, was gone from the room; Dean must have taken it out, even without Sam pointing out how bad it smelled. Sam sat up. Snow had been tracked in during the night, he guessed he was lucky it had been Dean doing the tracking, otherwise he'd be a dead man. Funny how much he trusted that Dean would be there, enough to fall asleep without checking the locks or anything resembling safety precautions. Dean had probably been awake most of the night anyway.

Through the window he could see the gleam of gold and white. He got up and threw the curtains open, surprised to find crystal white snow everywhere, and a lapis lazuli sky beyond the edge of the white-capped roof of the motel. He could see some guy, bundled up, hard at it with a shovel, warm enough to have thrown his hood back, his breath like a shot of cigar smoke with every toss.

"Dude," said Dean from behind him.

Sam turned around. Dean sat up, squinting at him, making that face he would make when on the verge of saying something nasty but was holding it back. Sam shut the curtains without being asked.

"Breakfast," he said.

"You go on without me," said Dean. "I'm not hungry."

"And I've had enough of that crap," said Sam. He reached for his jeans that he'd hung over a chair the night before. "Besides, we've got a grave to dig today; it's not going to dig itself. And I'm not going to do it alone." These last words were muffled as he pulled on his hoodie without unzipping it.

"And after that we split this dumb little town?"

Sam pulled the hoodie straight on his arms, checked his back pocket for his wallet. "Of course. The job'll be done here. Now will you come on? It's already 10, they'll stop serving breakfast soon."

"Not on Sunday," said Dean. "No self respecting diner stops serving breakfast before noon on a Sunday."

"True. But come on anyway. I'm starving."

Dean stayed on the bed. Sam walked to the end of it and tried not to loom. "Just come. Order toast. I promise not to bug you."

"Yeah, you say that now," said Dean. But he was getting up, tightening the laces on his boots that he'd never taken off, pulling his rumpled sweater into order.

Sam grabbed the key from the dresser and didn't tell Dean to hurry. He didn't remark that Dean put on another sweater before he put on his leather jacket. He didn't even say anything when Dean swiped his gloves. He merely broke a path through the snow that shortly joined a number of other paths that led to the diner. Once there, they had to wait in the sweaty, overhot group at the front of the hostess desk. The place was hopping. Sam could smell bacon on the grill, and peppers. His mouth started to water, but when he looked at Dean, all he saw was blankness. But a promise was a promise.

A two-top opened up. It wasn't near the windows, but it felt warm as they sat down. Sam satisfied himself with an order of biscuits and gravy, with scrambled eggs on the side, and with watching Dean manage a piece of toast along with his cup of coffee. He did his best not to scowl or stare pointedly. In fact, he all but ignored his brother, tending to his breakfast with extra care, and managed three cups of coffee to Dean's one. Thus with his full stomach and Dean's no doubt empty one, they headed out on Arapahoe to Valmont Cemetery.

As Dean drove, Sam was surprised to see the snow melting from the black streets, vapor rising up from glossy gutters running with water. The sun was in a cloudless sky, and even though it was cold, the snow was turning to slush in the fields as they headed down Arapahoe.

"Place'll be mud by the time we dig," said Dean.

"Better than hacking through permafrost," said Sam.

"True."

Dean turned the Impala on Butte Mille Road that led straight to Valmont Butte. Then he parked at the bottom of the hill right next to the gate.

"It's locked," said Dean, the engine humming in idle.

"Yeah," said Sam. "Not that the Impala could make it up that grade with all that snow anyway."

"She could make it."

"Dean, underneath the snow, the road is just one big rut."

"Fine, we'll park here and carry it all up."

"Great." Sam kept his irritation hidden. Of course there would be a hike through what was now ankle deep slush. His sneakers weren't dry from yesterday. He had on more layers, but if he didn't come down with raging pneumonia, he'd be very surprised.

Dean parked parallel to the road and they unloaded everything they'd need: salt, two shovels, a canister of gasoline. Dean pulled out two pairs of working gloves; Sam took one pair and put them on. He bent to pick up a shovel and the canister of gasoline, and stopped when he saw Dean's face. Dean had tucked his chin down to his shoulder, that stance he took when facing something hard. He was bending to pick up his own shovel and the salt, but slowly, like he ached all over.

"Dean."

Dean straightened up, gear in hand, shoulders now level, eyes flat, his face an absolute blank.

"You okay?"

"Sure," said Dean. "I'm okay. Already cold as a well digger's ass, but good. I'm good. You?"

Sam shrugged. It was no use. Dean was going to hold on to whatever it was that was bugging him, and even though Sam could argue this fact till he was blue in the face, Dean would not admit it. Maybe someday, when they were far from Boulder and hip deep in another, quite different job. Then, perhaps, in the darkness, Dean might start talking. Or he might not. Fact was, Sam wasn't sure he wanted to think about it any more. Four days was long enough to be barred at the gate to Dean's inner thoughts.

They trudged up the hill, slipping on melted slush and the mud that churned up beneath their feet. The hill cut a line against the hard, icy blue sky. At the top of the hill was a little flat mesa, and the gate to the cemetery, which luckily, wasn't locked. There were a few bare, scrambly trees and clumps of dried brush. Gunnarson's last resting place certainly wasn't fancy.

Dean stopped to look back along the way they'd come while Sam fiddled with the latch.

"You're right," Dean said. "She wouldn't have made it. Not enough clearance."

Sam nodded in response, hefted his shovel, and slipped through the gate. In his pocket he had the slip of paper with the grid number for Gunnarson's gravesite, but he had it memorized. He walked along the rows, feeling Dean behind him, silently following. The cemetery wasn't large, but it was old, and not everything had a clear designation. The markers were weatherworn, some almost indecipherable. Almost giving up, Sam scanned the cemetery, his eyes catching on a new hard mound under the snow, and a freshly carved headstone.

"Yeah," he said, pointing with his shovel. "That one over there." His breath came out in clouds that in the slight breeze swirled around his face for a minute before whisking away. His nose felt raw on the inside, but the sun was bright and everything was melting. It should be an easy dig.

He led the way, hearing Dean tromp behind him in the soft snow, squinting against the glint of the sun, the brightness of the sky. "Yesterday it was a blizzard," he said. "Today? Tropical."

"Yeah," said Dean.

Sam stopped. "Here it is."

They began to dig.

*

Even with Dean digging like a madman without taking a single break to Sam's two five-minute ones, it took them till well afternoon, with the sun starting to move towards the ridge of the mountains, where clouds boiled up along the back range. Sam stood there for a moment, leaning on his shovel, puffing out steam, looking. Seeing how far he could see from this one high point at the edge of the town.

He looked down at Dean, who, after a long pause, had jumped down to break open the coffin and was now standing on the edges of it, eyes down. He was covered with dirt and ice; they both were. They would have to do rock, paper, scissors to decide who got the first shower, but then, Dean always lost.

"Okay," said Dean. "This is it." Dean climbed out and picked up the salt and poured it into the now open grave. The sound of it skittering across a not-so-old body was familiar to Sam. Normally the bodies they dealt with were brittle as dried leaves. He'd glimpsed the edges of the round flesh for a second before Dean waved him away, muttering something about it being really gross. Sam didn't mind being protected for a minute. He'd had his share of gross.

Sam handed him the gas can. Dean jerked his chin at him as they both took off their gloves so the leather wouldn't become soaked with gasoline.

"Hey," Dean said, starting to pour. "I think I forgot the matches. They're in the car."

The wind was brisk now as Sam turned to go, nodding. He was peeved that Dean had forgotten, but it seemed par for the course. He walked to the gate, listening to the sounds of Dean pouring the gas on the body, the fumes coming up like a familiar dank perfume across the snow. Something he'd smelled a hundred times or more. He opened the gate and looked at the path, thought about the distance to the Impala, and whether the sun would have started to set by the time he got back with the matches.

Going through the gate he smelled it. Sulphur. And then heard the snap and the sizzle. And stopped.

He turned around. Dean had matches and what looked like a large folder in his hand. He was about to set it on fire so Sam ran. Ran right at him and tackled him into the wet snow. The folder went everywhere, papers spilling, photographs. Handwritten notes. Dean's name on every one.

Dean fought him, pushing up with his legs as Sam pushed down with his arms, his weight. Dean's eyes glittered, hard green stones in his white face, and he was shaking.

"Dean, stop it." Sam pushed down, hard. "Just stop." He felt something rush through him, felt sick, his heart aching like it had been punched with a fist. There was no way to take back time and protect Dean from what had happened to him. Everything hurt.

"Sam." That was all Dean said. Sam rolled away, his backside covered in snow, and looked at the papers in the breeze, some sticking to the snow, some catching themselves on the low branches on the fir trees. He felt weak, his muscles all out of power as he reached for one, snow sifting up his sleeve, making him cold all over.

"Don't, Sam. Please-don't."

But he did. There was a piece of paper within easy reach of his fingers. He grabbed it and read what was written in blue ink. In careful longhand.

 __

 _Dean was bad today. I tried to make it good for him, but he just doesn't understand. Today he fought back. He bit me and he was so much like a wild animal that he scared me. He shouldn't do that, boys shouldn't be scary like that. It upsets me. He even threw a wrench at me. It didn't hit me, but it dented the covering on the clock. That's not going to get fixed anytime soon, the school board, and even Mr. Mates, have told me that they're not willing to fix up the janitor's office. That makes me angry. My relationship with Dean has been sweet at times, but today, it made me angry, too. I had to punish him. He didn't like that, he-_

Sam threw the paper down and put his face in his hands. Just for a minute. Wanting the darkness of not knowing until the cold started to leach up into his bones and he heard Dean moving. He lowered his hands and opened his eyes. Shivering, he watched Dean begin to gather the papers, bending slowly, snow sifting from the length of his body, leaving wet spots behind like black bruises.

All his thoughts ran together like ice melt in a gutter. And the answer to the question, what was Dean's problem this trip out, became as clear to him as a punch in the gut. Not some other man's child, or another boy's brother. Dads' Dean, _his_ Dean. Set upon by this disgusting roach of a man, now only bones soaked with gasoline. That Dean had never intended to tell him was clear. His own reaction was not. He wanted to kill someone-anyone-Dean was closest. Dean who'd not been strong or invincible, the way Sam had always thought. Dean had been vanquished. Taken. Vulnerable. And had lied-

"Why?" he asked into his hands. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?" He couldn't even articulate what it was that he wanted Dean to have told him. Couldn't even begin to imagine what it had been like, to come back to this town, to come back to that school. To think Mr. Gunnarson was alive, only to find out that Mr. Gunnarson was the _hunt_. To hear Mr. Gunnarson's name on everyone's lips, being described and praised. And all the while only you knew what he was really like.

"Nothing to tell," said Dean. Sam looked up as Dean took another match and lit it and tossed it into the open grave. It caught right away, sending up an oily smoke that curled into the air like black and grey ribbons. When the fat in the body started to burn, Sam could smell it. He made himself get up and started to gather the papers.

"Don't read anything else, Sam," said Dean. "You hear?"

Sam nodded, not looking at his brother. The anger had left, leaving something dark and empty and helpless inside. He was shivering all up and down his body, could barely grasp the pieces of paper, crumpled them in his fist and went on picking them up till he couldn't hold any more. Then he went to the pit and tossed them in. Then went back for more. He was aching and the sun was going down by the time all the pieces of paper had been collected. They had quite a bonfire going by that time, but the flare of flame was thin and quick. Paper burned like that, even snow-damp paper, hot and full of promise but with no stamina.

At the very last, Sam saw the manila folder that had held all the papers. It was open in the snow, and paper clipped to the inside were two photographs. Dean was watching him, eyes wide, but didn't stop him. Sam picked it up. There was one photo of Dean standing on some steps in the sun with no coat and his flannel shirt tied around his waist. The sky was bright and there was no snow on the ground. It looked like it might be at the school because it had the same red bricks in the background, but Sam didn't know for sure. The other picture was of himself and Dean. There was a bus behind them, and in the picture he was looking up at Dean, a fierce, proud smile on his face. Dean was smiling back, but small, as though he were trying not to. Both photos had been taken with a telephoto lens. Sam had no doubt as to the photographer.

He took the photos out of the paperclip and slipped them inside his jacket, into the breast pocket of his shirt. "I'm keeping these," he said. He tossed the folder into the fire.

Dean nodded. "Are we done here?"

Like it was any job. Like it was just any job. Fury rose up in Sam like hot oil, but Dean had turned away and was sprinkling the rest of the salt on the smoking remains. Gunnarson wasn't walking this earth anytime soon or never, and Dean was silent, doing his job, his duty, taking care of responsibilities. But who had taken care of Dean? No one, apparently. Sam suddenly felt sick.

Dean picked up a shovel, and Sam did likewise while the sweat cooled along his back, under his arms. Together they filled in the grave. Sam resisted the urge to spit. Something was building inside of him so ugly and dark that he didn't know what to do with it. He wanted to hurt something, punch Dean, scream at the sky. But Dean was silent and businesslike, so Sam followed suit. When they were done, it was getting dark, and they patted the last mounds of dirt with the shovels, the metal clanging against dark damp stones, the smell of gasoline lurking under the earth.

Then Dean picked up the empty gas can, hoisted the shovel over his shoulder and jerked his chin at Sam. Sam picked up the salt can, gathered the gloves to stuff in his pockets, and curled his fingers around the shovel handle.

As Dean started to walk off, Sam asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I told you already, Sam. There's nothing to tell. We're done here, let's go."

That was so far from the truth, such an obvious lie that Sam could barely contain his shout, the one that came up in his throat like a claw. But Dean was walking ankle-deep in snow down the hill towards the Impala, limping and slipping as the sun went down and Sam realized all at once that this had cost Dean more than either of them knew. Sam could see it now, and realized how many times he'd seen it before: the curl of Dean's shoulders, the unsteady gait, the dip of his head. Sam made himself walk now as Dean opened the trunk and put his shovel and the empty gas can in, tucking them down so they wouldn't rattle around.

Sam came up beside him, silent, putting his shovel next to Dean's, handing Dean the old milk jug they used for salt. Dean put them away, and not looking at Sam, slammed the trunk shut. He got in the car, started the engine, and without waiting for her to warm up, cranked the heat on full. Sam heard the click as he did this and hurried to get in the car. Not that Dean would leave him, but maybe he might forget that Sam was with him.

Once Sam was in, Dean sped the tires through the snow, now turning to ice and bumped them over the little hillock of dirt and onto the blacktop. The car smelled vaguely like gasoline and smoke. Dean was taking them back to the motel, by the feel of the direction, but Sam could barely look at him to ask. He had no idea what to say, now trapped inside the metal confines of the Impala, now barreling down Valmont as if the speed limit or the icy roads were of no consequence. Sam gripped the handle, pulled the gloves out to dump on the floor, and didn't say anything.

By the time Dean pulled up in front of their motel room it was full on dark. Dean turned off the lights and the engine, and they both sat there for a minute while the engine pinged into coolness.

"Dean."

"Sam."

"Dean, you-"

"Sam, we are not talking about this. I mean it."

"But Dean-"

Dean straightened up, hooked his hands on the steering wheel like it was a life preserver. He looked at Sam, eyes dark and very still, not even glinting in the near darkness. "But nothing. I'm not going to discuss it with you, and that's that."

He got out of the Impala and slammed the door behind him, leaving Sam in the dark, fast cooling cab, staring at his brother's silhouette as he unlocked the motel room door. Without glancing back, Dean shut the door behind him. Sam sat there for another minute, feeling blank. He had no idea what to do or to say, and felt the uncomfortable idea spin into his head that there was nothing he could do. Or say, especially not if Dean was unwilling to talk to him. And even if Dean did talk to him, Sam knew what Dean would say: _It was years ago, Sam, there's nothing you can do, Sam, give it a rest, Sam._

 __

He had to try anyway.

Once in the motel room, he leaned against the door as if blocking Dean's way out. Dean was already ensconced on his bed, boots off, TV on, perusing a handful of menus as if to determine which Chinese restaurant they would be ordering from that night.

"Can't we just get a pizza?" Sam asked. He heeled off his sneakers and bent to remove his socks, and his feet were instantly grateful to be on their way to a dryer state. A hot shower would feel pretty good right about now as well, but he had a feeling that it was now or never. "Pepperoni?"

Dean looked up at him and rolled his eyes and threw the menus on the bed.

"Order then. Whatever." He turned his attention to the clicker, moving through channels like he was sorting through diamonds.

Sam rubbed his face with one hand, and picked up a menu. Chinese. He tossed it aside. The second one was pizza, and he used his cell phone to order, extra cheese, pepperoni, garlic. Liter of coke. Done. The air was still and dry and except for the blare of the TV, it was quiet. Sam sat on the other bed, facing Dean. Dean kept his attention on the TV.

Sam leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees. In a very small voice, he asked, "Why didn't Dad do anything?" He wasn't looking at Dean but could feel the shift on the bed as Dean's body tightened.

"I told you not to start, Sam." This came out as a bark, as he knew it would.

"Well, I'm starting. Get over it," he said, responding in kind.

"And you're blaming Dad?"

Sam looked up. Dean was white, lips a thin line. Sam remembered this look from the time they talked to Dad's old garage partner, Mr. Gunther, and the irony was suddenly not lost on Sam. Gunther had almost called social services on John Winchester; the idea that anyone would think that John had been less than an ideal father always made Dean as prickly as a spiked collar.

"No, I'm not blaming Dad. But he should have noticed; I should have noticed."

There was a long pause while Dean breathed slowly in and out, holding on to his temper, the skin around his eyes tight. He was obviously going into that place where nothing bothered him or ever would. Sam had to catch him before he got there or the conversation was over before it started.

"Should have, would have, Sam, what does it matter, it was years ago."

Dean was also not looking at him, his attention carefully on the TV as if the conversation they were attempting to have, or rather that Sam was attempting to have and that Dean was attempting to avoid having, was quite the interruption to the very interesting commercial now on the screen.

"Well, for you it was years ago, but for me, it's right now," said Sam.

He got a reaction, but it was not the one he hoped. Dean, finally, turned to look at Sam and crossed his arms across his chest. "Get a clue, Sammy, this is not about you."

Sam felt hot all over, like he'd been caught poking around in Dean's private business for the fun of it. He made himself get up to push back the curtains and look through the steam on the windows for the pizza guy. The windowpane had ice along the edges. Sam ran a finger along one ridge; the window only had the one pane and the cold air was seeping through as easily as though the window had been made of cheesecloth. He checked the heater. Then turned around to look at Dean. He was about to open his mouth to apologize, but Dean was shifting on the bed, so he didn't.

"Besides," said Dean, as though he'd been reasonably sharing information all along. "Dad did ask. He asked several times, in fact, if everything was okay, so you can just cross him off your guilty list."

"What did he-how did-"

Dean shifted again, not looking at Sam. "He would just ask. Is-is everything okay. Son." Dean's voice cracked on this and he tightened his jaw. "My geography teacher asked too, so don't you stand there accusing everyone, especially Dad, of not paying attention because they did."

"And you told them everything was fine."

"Yes, Sam, I did."

"But why? Why would you do that?" It was inexplicable to him.

Someone knocked at the door and Sam couldn't move. He stood there and watched as Dean got up and performed the pizza ritual, handing over money for a box of already-cold pizza and warm soda. It would be his job to get the ice, so he reached for the ice bucket, slipped on Dean's unlaced boots and hustled down the walkway to the ice machine. Shivering he filled it up, too much in a hurry to care that he spilled half of it on the way back, his mind racing. Why would someone, with the offer of rescue, turn it down?

Back in the room, Dean was already enveloped in his own silence. Sam poured them both some coke in the plastic motel glasses, with plenty of ice for Dean to chew on. He sat on the edge of his bed and helped himself to pizza that he really didn't want to eat. It already had coagulated grease along the edge. Dean tore his way through three pieces and two glasses of coke, like Sam wasn't just sitting there watching him. Like he wasn't at all aware that he was really eating for the first time in almost a week. He was as impenetrable as a brick wall at that point, and Sam knew he'd been wrong to leave the room and let the moment pass.

"Dean."

He got silence as his answer, and he made himself look at his hands or the floor or anywhere but Dean.

"Why?" Sam asked. "Why when they asked didn't you say anything? When they could have helped you. Anyone."

Dean got up from the bed, crumbs and pizza ends flying. He stalked to the door, hand on the handle, like he wanted to go out. His shoulders made a hard line against the white of the wall, and then he turned to Sam.

"Welcome to my own private hell," he said, the skin around his mouth white. "It's twenty degrees below zero out there, the roads are sheets of ice. There is no where to go, and I'm trapped in a room with you, and you won't just shut the hell up about it."

Sam swallowed against the thickness in his throat. Sometimes, he felt like his brother's worst nightmare. He dipped his head, hair falling in his eyes, and maybe it was better that way. To not look. Maybe that would keep him from feeling, because to be removed from the sickening whirl inside his stomach, as it had been for hours, would have been a saintly relief. He had to curl his tongue against his teeth to keep his mouth still.

"I guess," he heard himself say, shocked at the roughness in his voice, "I don't understand it. Why you wouldn't just tell someone."

He heard Dean sigh. Saw the dip of the other bed out of the corner of his eye and waited. Then he lifted his head. Dean was sitting on the far edge of his bed, back curled, facing away, his hands clasped together.

"I always understood," Dean said, "always have, why women stay with guys who beat them."

He stopped, and Sam opened his mouth to ask what the hell he was talking about but realized that he'd gotten Dean going. That he was actually going to hear what was going on in Dean's head.

"If you're in that-if you got a guy beating on you, if you've got something like-like that, then you think it's you. Or you're-you don't want to admit it's happening. It's your fault. You brought it on. You think you should be able to handle it."

"Dean, you were 12."

"Doesn't matter. I should have handled it."

"You should have told Dad." Sam couldn't help it. Dad would have split the earth getting to Gunnarson, had he found out.

Dean was still for a moment, so still that Sam thought the conversation was over at that point because Sam had brought up, yet again, the fact that Dad hadn't done anything about it. Then he watched Dean shaking his head, as if he were talking to himself and disagreeing. The heater kicked on at that moment, and Sam thought that he'd missed something Dean had said. He moved closer. Dean looked up, looked at Sam over his shoulder.

"I didn't tell Dad," he said, his eyes a little blank. There was a sudden sweat dappling his hairline, still gritty from the dig. "Even when he asked me, because some days, I just didn't remember what had happened at school."

This almost made sense. It didn't explain everything, but if Dean was blacking out at what had been happening to him, that would make it harder to get help.

"Frankly," said Dean, "sometimes all I remembered was walking home from school with you. Every day. Just you and me. Faces into the wind." Dean shifted and pulled back into himself, looking at the TV like they had not just been talking.

Sam knew he was going to loose it. Either start screaming or bawling or punching. Maybe all three, all at once. He remembered those walks, how Dean had acted like everything was okay. Even when Sam would ask him, like that time Dean had been walking slowly, too slowly for Dean, and Dean had said he was fine. When he was the last thing from fine. Sam felt the blood pound behind his eyes as he watched Dean pull himself back against the headboard, and pick up the remote as if he'd only just casually brushed pizza remains from the bed and was going to watch TV now. Was in fact, watching it, clicking on the remote, spinning through channels as he always did.

Sam stood up, pricks of heat behind his eyes as his blood felt like it was boiling up his spine. "Are you made of stone?" he demanded, almost shouting. "Aren't you angry? Don't you feel anything?"

"Get a grip, Sam," said Dean, his voice dark. "I've had enough."

Sam did. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He stripped down to his skin and got in before the water was hot. For a moment he stood there, letting the water rush over him, the steam building up, feeling like his brain was made of nothing but mush. He leaned his forehead against the tile that was inexplicably still cool, beaded with scummy sweat, smelling like cheap cleanser. And the images rose.

When he was a kid, Dean had been the older brother you saw on old TV shows. Bristle haired, freckled, and the perfect hellion with a smile he seemed to save for Sam. There was no one more powerful than Dean; Sam remembered that. Now he knew better. Knew that a 12-year-old boy was made of nothing but bones and hope.

Thunk.

He was rocking, his head tapping the tiles, enough to distract his brain, enough to keep him where he was when his brain wanted nothing more than to take a walk into darkness. Where Gunnarson, features still clear from the photo in the file, with his crew cut and big glasses, pushed Dean around. Scared him into silence. Took off his clothes. Did things to him.

Thunk. Thunk.

The showerhead lurched above him as someone on the floor above flushed a toilet and the water pressure changed. Sam braced himself for a hard dash of cold but didn't move out of the way when it happened. He wanted it to help. Wanted it to shock him enough to make it stop. But it was only a lukewarm shift and then back to hot again. There was never cold water when you needed it.

Thunk. Thunk.

He saw Dean's freckled cheeks and the still round, still young face. Like the one in the photo Sam had found, where Dean regarded the world around him with a kind of stillness that made him seem old. But at 12. At 12 he couldn't have fought off Gunnarson, not even with Dad's training. A kid shouldn't have to deal with that. Dean Winchester, with everything else he'd been through, would go through, shouldn't have had to deal with that. Someone should have stopped it. No one did.

Thunk. Thunk.

There was a knock at the door.

"Knock it off, Sammy."

Dean.

"What." Sam snapped this out around a mouthful of water, head down, his eyes shut.

"You're shaking the place down. And either you're punching the walls or doing that thing with your head, but stop it. It won't do any good and it doesn't matter anyway."

Dean's voice echoed against the tiles, and Sam felt something flick on inside of him, a hot roil combing against his ribs, slipping up to encase his heart. He couldn't turn the shower off fast enough, couldn't pull dry clothes over wet skin quick enough. The door handle turned too slowly; he pulled hard, something in the doorjamb shattered.

He burst out of the bathroom, hair dripping on his t-shirt that stuck to his skin, feet bare on the greasy carpet.

"Dude," said Dean, getting up from the bed and putting his back to the wall. "What is your problem?"

Sam took a breath, trying to keep a rein on himself. "You were molested, Dean. You hear me? _Molested_. And no matter how much you try to ignore it, it hasn't gone away. It won't go away." He stopped, heart thumping like it was sucking everything into itself, every ounce of air and blood and feeling. "What happened to you. It's making me crazy."

"Then stop thinking about it. I have."

This made absolutely no sense to Sam. Dean could not truly believe that if you never thought about it, then the bad thing never happened. Could he? Sam shook his head, water droplets flying to hit his arms, his bare feet.

"I'm in that shower, Dean," said Sam. He pointed at the bathroom. His hand shook. "The worst images are coming to my head. They won't let me-if you could just tell me what happened. If I knew, then I could-"

"So you want to know if he fucked me up the ass, is that it?" Dean smirked. "Pervert."

Sam lunged at Dean. Grabbed him by the arms and pushed him hard up against a bare bit of wall. Dean was opened-mouthed, mouth quivering like he was trying not to smile because Sam was acting stupid and emotional, like he always did. As if he hadn't been expecting this, Sam to come barreling out of the bathroom, flinging water, spitting fire.

"Dean, it's not funny." He felt the fury biting at him. Of course, Dean would make a joke of it, like he did everything that became even remotely serious. "I've put up with your weird shit for four days. Four days, Dean. And you never said a word." He dug his fingers into Dean's skin, part of him thinking that if he could force Dean to hear him, if he could just make him listen. "If you had said no, for whatever reason, I wouldn't have taken the job. We could have left it alone, gone after something else. Walked away from it. We could have-"

He stopped and released a little of the pressure on Dean's arms. There were marks there now, turning red and then purple. Dean didn't wince. He was looking at Sam. Watching to see which way he would jump.

"Why didn't you, Dean? Why didn't you stop this, any of this?" He gave Dean a little shake and then let him go. He thought about freshly dug graves and salt. About gasoline and matches. Then all of a sudden, Sam figured it out. "I know why."

Dean's throat moved as he swallowed. His eyes were wide. "Why?" Like Sam was going to tell him something he wanted to know.

Sam worked his jaw, trying to loosen whatever was climbing up from his chest. "Because you wanted me to know. You wanted me to find out."

"No, Sammy." This came out of Dean like a gunshot. "Never, I never wanted you to know."

Sam shook his head and stepped back. "You're not even remotely clever, Dean. You were acting just like you did back then. Cold all the time. Not eating. Instead of nightmares, you never slept. I never saw it when I was little, but it makes sense now." He paused. "And the matches? Dean, if you really didn't want me to find out he had a file on you? You would have waited till I got all the way down the hill before you tried to set it on fire."

In those eyes, in his brother's eyes, something moved, something shifted, and it was Dean who looked away. Tucking his head down to his shoulder, mouth closing.

Sam reached out. Touched him in the middle of his chest. "Don't do that. Tell me." He let his fingers linger. "If our roles were reversed," he began, hardly recognizing his own voice. "If you were me-you'd want the same."

But the truth was, he didn't want any of it. It was too dark and too bizarre, and he could just imagine what Dad would say, were he there. Dad would have a hairy fit, and salting and burning would have been too good for Gunnarson. If he could have turned back the clock and not caught Dean setting that folder on fire, would he? And let Dean continue to carry that weight that he didn't even realize he'd been carrying? No, even to save himself from its ugliness, Sam could not do it.

"Yeah," he said now. "I need to know."

"Okay," said Dean. "But after this, after today, we're not talking about it."

Sam nodded. Of course, Dean could insist on that, and Sam could agree, but even if it was a lie, if it got Dean talking, it would be worth it. He stepped backwards another step. The carpet beneath his feet was soggy.

"Go over-" Dean pointed to one of the chairs on the other side of the room. It wasn't far, it wasn't a big room, but the chair faced the wall. Faced the wall and not Dean. "And don't-"

Dean didn't finish the sentence but Sam knew what he wanted. He was going to talk, because Sam wanted it and because maybe Sam had been right about everything else, but he didn't want to be watched while he did it. Sam went to the table, ducked under the low hanging light fixture with the chain that had collected enough dust to look like a patina, and pulled out the fake wooden chair. Sitting down in it felt like sitting down in a thousand chairs just like it. He planted his elbows on the table and used his hands to press against the side of his forehead. Like he had a headache; not like he was putting blinkers on for his brother. Watched the water drip on the table from his hair in round, silver circles. And waited.

 

 ****

 **Friday, January 24 th, 1992**

Dean made it through the week by avoiding the hallway near the auditorium, by taking the long way around for his geography class, and by keeping his eyes open the whole time. He hardly dared blink. His eyes were as dry as dusty bones, but at least his homework had been handed in, and he wasn't limping anymore. He still had bruises, striped around the backs of his legs. They didn't throb anymore. If he didn't touch them and once he was sitting, if he kept real still, everything was okay. The marks would be gone in a few days anyway. All he had to do was keep up with his current strategy and all would be well.

Plus, it was Friday. Between him, he and Sam had saved up another couple of dollars, and Dad said they could have a dollar each from him, so a visit to the 7-11 in the morning was the plan. They had agreed to buy all chocolate this time, no pixie sticks, no wax bottles with liquid inside of them.

When school was over, he walked towards the front doors. About halfway there, he sensed a door into the hallway, and he skirted to one side to avoid it. Something or someone pulled him into the darkness of a very small room, and for a second he thought it was one of those phantoms Dad sometimes talked about, but this phantom smelled like lemon-lime, and had hard hands that held him in place. Dean shifted his weight, tried to pull away, but the bag over his chest and the pea coat made him bulky and slow.

Then he felt Mr. Gunnarson's hand over his mouth and realized he was in the janitor's closet. He could see the slats of light coming through the metal ventilation at the bottom of the door. Could hear students walking past, could see their shadows, feel the breeze of fresh, cool hallway air.

Dean opened his mouth to shout past Gunnarson's hand.

"You behave yourself, Dean," said Gunnarson, tightening his fingers on Dean's face. "Or I'll have to bring Sammy in here, and you wouldn't want that, would you?"

The janitor clasped Dean to him. Dean froze and felt Gunnarson's other hand slip down his side to unbutton Dean's jeans, undo the zipper, ease his jeans down his legs. This hurt a little bit as the stiff cloth slid over his legs, and he grit his teeth against the hiss. Then the hand went away, and he heard a wet popping sound. Gunnarson's hand moved on his bare backside now, wet. Cold. Sliding down between his legs.

Dean moved, suddenly, pushing, arching away. He pressed his hand against Mr. Gunnarson's chest and felt Mr. Gunnarson's breath in his ear.

"Come on, now Dean, be a good boy, you'll like this, you will."

With a shove, Gunnarson slid his finger inside of Dean's body, dry and damp at the same time, pushing like he was cutting through something hard, something he wanted. Dean's lurched, slamming against the thigh barring his way, the strap of his messenger bag slipping up to tug against his neck. He wanted to scream, but all he could manage was a grunt, drawing in more air that tasted like dust and chemicals, hitching up as the finger ripped out of him and then shoved back in. Mr. Gunnarson was shaking now, his whole hand cupping Dean's buttocks as he moved his finger in and out, and Dean had to grab onto cloth to steady himself, Mr. Gunnarson's grey shirt clutched in his fist.

There was a brush of Mr. Gunnarson's chin against his forehead as the janitor gasped aloud, and Dean felt the dampness against his bare hip, smelled that salty smell again, knew what it was. Knew what had happened. The finger pulled out of him one last time, feeling like sandpaper, and the hand, stroking his bare skin, pulling up his underwear, fumbling with the waistband. Dean turned, leaning against Mr. Gunnarson's thigh while he pulled up his jeans and did them up, holding his jacket out of the way with his wrists, which was hard in the cramped space. Tugging on the strap of his bag, he moved it down from his neck and took a deep breath. Then he stepped towards the door and opened it.

"Next week, Dean," said Mr. Gunnarson, almost whispering, "we'll try it again. You'll come to like it, I promise."

Dean didn't keep himself from running down the hall, though he heard the shout of the hallway monitor, one of those teachers with nothing better to do then yell at kids, and barreled out of the front door, looking for Sam, where was Sammy? At the far end of the parking lot, looking like a miracle, the white van appeared and slowly followed the traffic around as it went, north to south, one way, slow, careful of kids darting out between the parked cars, waiting behind orange buses for its turn at the sidewalk. By the time it stopped and Sammy hopped out, mittens on strings intact, his knit cap firmly in place, Dean was shaking. He couldn't help it.

Sam stopped and tilted his head back to look up at Dean. "What's wrong with you?"

"Cold," said Dean. "Gotta cold, the flu maybe. I don't know about candy tomorrow." Which meant that of course if Dean couldn't take him, Sam couldn't walk alone, along the Saturday traffic on Baseline. Not all that way.

"That's okay," said Sam. "Maybe we could go Sunday."

They walked home, the ever-brisk wind blowing like it wanted to blow them back to the school. At one point, Dean felt Sammy tugging on his coat sleeve, and he realized he was walking perilously close to the road. He staggered over to the grass and kept on walking. The walking helped. So did Sammy's chatter about math class, about the stupid boy who'd taken his hat who was trying to be his friend now, about the teacher who'd brought cookies for the class just because it was Friday. Dean nodded and tried to say something at several points during this, but his throat felt like it had been filled with sand. Maybe he was coming down with a cold, or something worse. Something that would keep him out of school forever.

When they got to the trailer, the sun was slanted low, right in their eyes. The Impala wasn't there, but Dean remembered something about Dad coming home that night, something about phantoms being all taken care of and a phone call expected from Uncle Bobby.

Dean unlocked the door to the trailer and turned to remind Sam to hang up his coat and take off his shoes, but Sam was already doing this. Then Sam turned on the TV and flung himself on the couch. Hogan's Heros, it sounded like, so Dean went in the back room and lay down on top of the covers, facing the wall. He tucked the pillow under his chin and curled up his knees towards his chest. He didn't hurt anywhere, but his chest felt hollow, like someone had shoveled it out. And he was cold, shivering like snow was settling along his shoulder, his ribs, his socked feet. He could hear the TV, thought about getting up to make some dinner, thought about staying there till night came. Pretend to be asleep. Pretended he could come up with a way, somehow, a way, to make the blackness stay at a distance.

After a time, the noise from Hogan's Heros switched tone, and Dean realized that Dad was home. He'd not even heard the Impala pull up, or the door open and close. He blinked at the semi-dark wall in front of him, and turned over. He should get up. He did.

He walked into the relative warmth of the kitchen to see Dad sitting at the table, the black phone receiver curled in his hand as he rested his head on his other fist. His black hair, still damp from a wash at the sink, stood up like witchweed around his ears.

"No, Bobby," Dad was saying, looking up at Dean and greeting him with smile in his dark eyes and a jerk of his chin. "The boys are settled. They just started school, can't you-but Arkansas is two days away, I can't-"

Dean grabbed Dad's arm, fingers twisting in the flannel.

"Hang on a second, Bobby," said Dad, lifting the phone away from his face, "Dean, how many times-"

"We could go, Dad," said Dean, his voice leaping out of him, just shy of cracking. "We could. I don't care about this school, and Sammy, he could go anywhere, he-"

Dad just looked at him. Sammy, hearing his name, jumped up and came three quick steps towards them. For a second, no one said anything, though Dean could hear Uncle Bobby's voice, small, coming out of the phone. "John?"

"C'mon, Dad," said Dean. Not begging. "A school's a school, huh? They got schools in Arkansas, right? We could go there. Maybe they got one of those schools where Sammy and I can be together, walk to school and everything."

Dad's eyes flickered. Dean could see he wanted to go; staying too long in one place was rather too much like putting down roots, letting the moss grow, and Dean had always felt Dad didn't want that to happen. But there was Sammy to consider, Sammy who was getting older, who was starting to make his distaste for all things unstable known. It was Sammy who would put up the fuss, and it might be Dad who would give in, just to put off trouble.

Dad looked at Sam. Sam opened his mouth, and was about to say something unpleasant and bratty, and then Dad looked back at Dean. He was about to say _no_ and _sorry, Dean_.

"Please, Dad-" said Dean, but then his stomach began to roll up his throat, and he raced to the bathroom to slam down in front of the toilet before it was too late. His hand shook as he lifted the lid and the seat, and he leaned forward, feeling his spine crackle with the force of it as a stream of bile poured out of him. He closed his eyes, let it happen, tried to breath through his nose. When it was finished, he sank back, flushed the toilet, and wiped his mouth with shaking fingers. Dad and Sammy were at the bathroom door, filling it, their faces reflecting each other's in an open-mouthed stare. Brows drawn close in the same exact way.

"Dean," said Dad, "maybe we should wait till you're feeling better. A couple of days, or something-"

Which meant that he'd changed his mind to _yes_ , it was just a question of when. Sam opened his mouth, and Dean braced his shoulders back for the protest that would come. He looked at Sam and didn't say anything as a scream built up in his head so hard and so loud that he had to swallow. For a second, there was silence and then Sam blinked, his little monkey face still as he considered Dean kneeling on the floor.

"No, Dad," said Sam. "We could leave now. If Dean's sick, we can make a bed in the back seat, like we did when I was little."

Something crumbled inside of Dean, filling him, and he packed it away. He was going to be _safe_. He was going to be, and that thanks to Sammy. Who would never know why; Dean could never tell him why.

"You sure, Sammy?" asked Dad, the gratitude spilling out of him like water for making it easy on all of them, on Dean and Dad, who loved to travel. "Okay, then. Let's get packing."

Packing after living in a place for only three weeks still took a few hours and though Dean felt his head was going to split into two pieces, he did the best he could. Mostly to avoid Dad's worried stare, but also to make sure that they _did_ pack. That they did go. He was sweating under his armpits, feeling the jelly in his knees, and he felt cold, so cold. And he wanted to throw up again.

"Get the blankets," said Dad to Sammy when they were just about done. Sammy, for once, raced to do as he was told. Then Dad called for Dean to come over to him, and knelt down with one of the blankets and wrapped it around Dean, folding it across his front. And then, as he stood up, he took Dean in his arms. Curved one arm under his legs and tucked Dean to his chest with the other. Dean felt almost weightless as Dad carried him out to the car. It was odd; he was too old. He saw the half-moon overhead, and the wind scurrying the clouds across it. Looked at that, and didn't think, tucked his head in the strong curve of his father's neck, thought about salt. About sleep.

Dad braced himself against the back seat and lowered Dean into the next of blankets that Sammy had made as though he were small. He arranged the blanket around Dean. Patted his feet, touched his face, and looked at him with dark eyes. Then Dad stood up and looked at Sammy. If Dean was in the back seat, then Sammy had shotgun, which he almost never did, because if you rode shotgun, you had to be of use, which Sammy, most of the time, was not. But it was wide open. Dean leaned his head back against the pillow, expecting to hear the front door closing and Sam's excited bounce on the bench seat.

Instead, he felt the smack of Sam's hand against the armrest in the back seat, and then Sam's light hand, resting on Dean's leg under the blanket.

Dean opened his eyes. Sam was sitting on the hump over the drive shaft, facing towards Dean, his knit cap on, and mittens hanging from the sleeves of his coat.

"You go to sleep, Dean," said Sam. "And I'll keep watch."

This was something Dean had said to Sam any number of times. Over and over, like a prayer, something he meant, something that was always true. Dean felt a thump like iron in his chest, like it was coming up against stone, and wanted to close his eyes against the bright sparkle in Sammy's. But he didn't. He kept them open as the Impala slid out onto the road, by the position of the moon, heading east along Baseline and then south along Cherryvale, along the expanse of the frozen lake, the bare branches of cottonwoods flashing dark arms through the Impala's back window. And the breeze, pulling the moon into darkness. The road under the wheels. The hum of the engine. And Sammy's hand, light, like a feather, resting on his leg.

 

 ****

 **Sunday, November 25th, 2006**

"It was only a few times," said Dean. His voice was low. "The first time he-it was in the hallway. I was late to class. I had a hole in the seat of my jeans and he-well, I thought that was the only time. That it was just some weird one-off thing."

"But it wasn't." Sam's voice choked in his throat.

"No, he-he was everywhere. I couldn't go to lunch, 'cause I was trying to avoid him. He just kept after me, like he was hunting me."

With a whoosh, Dean stopped, and Sam realized, suddenly, that one of the reasons his brother was such a good hunter was because he'd never forgotten what it felt like to be prey.

"Then one time-" Dean began again, but he was breathing hard. Sam could hear it from across the room. He wanted to jump up and stop it, to say _forget it Dean_ , but knew that it was like lancing a wound. Or it could be. If you were brave and made a clean cut, you would heal. You would get better. Trouble was, it usually had to get a whole lot worse first.

"A couple of times he got me in the boiler room. I don't know how he got me down there but-it was fondling. Sometimes outside my pants sometimes inside. Okay? Just a lot of fondling. He never fucked me. Then one time-"

Dean stopped to laugh, bringing a hand up to his mouth as if to stop it.

"Dean?" Sam, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at the sound. He dropped his hands. Looked at Dean and screw his promise that he wouldn't. Dean was sitting on the bed, facing the wall. Like he was talking to himself. Like he was alone. "Why are you laughing?"

"Cause it's kind of funny. He got me down into the boiler room-but this time, I fought him off, right? He didn't get a chance to do anything, because I bit him. And then I threw a monkey wrench at him and you should have seen his face!"

"Is this the time he beat you?"

"How did you know about that?" Suddenly Dean's voice was icy cold.

"The file. I saw-saw some of it." Lines of blue ink that had seared into Sam's brain like a brand.

"Shit, Sam, I asked you not to read anything."

Sam made himself not apologize. "And that was it? That was what he did to you?"

"No, the time after that, the last time, he dragged me into that janitor's closet. The one with the slop sink and the floor wax-"

Sam remembered that closet. It was towards the front of the school, in a hallway that no doubt got a lot of traffic. Something rippled inside of him at the thought he'd stood in that spot and had never known. That Dean had stood only feet behind him and never said a word. "Why didn't you fight him off? If you were in the janitor's closet someone could have heard you-"

Dean was silent for a moment. "I had to keep real still," he said.

"Why?"

"Because he threatened me with you."

As Dean said this, Sam's stomach flipped over and he was sure he hadn't heard right. "What?"

"He said, if I didn't behave, he'd bring you in there, so I-"

Sam's stomach churned. The air filled with sparks. One more move and it would explode. " _Stop_."

"You wanted to know, Sam."

Sam stood up, sweat building on his face, on the back of his neck. He didn't look at Dean, felt his skin hum with shivers, his head cold, water still dripping on him.

"He took-he put-Yeah." Dean stopped then. And took a deep breath. Sam looked. Dean had his hands on his thighs like he was going to push himself to standing, and he did that for a bit but he didn't look all that steady. "Yeah, took down my pants and then he put his finger in me, so I guess you could say he fucked me." Dean wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. "Guess I'd forgotten that bit."

Sam stood up and rushed to the bathroom, tumbling to the cold floor on his knees, his head spinning, the spit in his throat building up almost faster than he could lift the lid and the seat. He bent over and vomited everything he'd eaten for the past day. The bile steamed as it hit the cold water, and he had to wipe his face with his forearm. It was more than he'd thought, less than it might have been. Still bad. Terrible bad. Something in his neck popped as he threw up again, and he had to rest his head against the rim of the toilet, absorbing the coolness of the porcelain.

Dean was at his side, moving close, soundless. Kneeling beside Sam, reaching up to flush the toilet. Sam looked at Dean, who waited there with serious eyes, not saying anything. His expression had always been a solid barrier between Sam and those things Dean felt he should be protected from. Except for this time and only because Sam had insisted.

The heat came on, wafting over them with a metallic smell. And looking at Dean, Sam realized that there was no comfort for him. That there had been no comfort for Dean, all these years.

Then Dean moved. Cupped his hands under Sam's arms and tugged, getting to his feet. "Come on, dude. That floor is nasty, even for me."

Sam stopped to rinse out his mouth and spit in the sink and then let Dean tug him to the bed. Warm air swirled around his head as he sat down, and Dean sat down beside him. They rested there, thigh to thigh, not talking, as they had so many times. Dean patted him, the last pat turning into something longer and comforting. It didn't stop Sam from shaking. He didn't know what to think or say, and the feeling of being helpless, of hands that could not grasp nor hold on. And there wasn't enough air, his lungs burned. He could feel his heart thumping behind his eyes. His hands were fists against his thighs.

"Look, Sam, I get it, okay? You and Dad-you would have ripped Gunnarson into a thousand pieces and scattered them to the winds. I know that. I do."

Sam closed his eyes. His face felt cold, the tips of his fingers numb. "I just wish," he said, feeling the rasp in his voice. "I just wish I could have done something." His chin dipped to his chest and he rubbed his face with his palm.

"But you did." Dean's voice was gentle.

Sam's eyes flew open. Dean was sitting so close that Sam would have to really turn his head to see his brother's face. "I didn't, Dean," he said, low. "I didn't do anything."

"You did. Don't you remember? You rescued me."

He shook his head. He didn't stop Gunnarson, he'd not been aware that anything had been going on, even to tell Dad. He'd not done anything.

"You did," said Dean. "You want the story? You gotta hear the whole thing, then. Just listen. Please?"

Sam ducked his chin, shivering in his damp t-shirt. His head ached. He nodded.

"The last time. That day. Uncle Bobby called. Wanted Dad to take a job in Arkansas. Remember?"

Sam shook his head no.

"Dad wanted to, well, you know Dad. And I jumped up and said let's go. Let's do it. And then you came over."

Dean was rubbing, no, pushing the heels of his palms into the mattress. Like he could shove down the thing bubbling inside of him that was making his voice shake. "I knew by looking at you, you would want to stay. Dad was going to give in, you know. You used to have these snit fits about moving so much. They started around then."

He heard Dean swallow, and swallowed himself in response. He remembered feeling rootless and homeless so many times, it had gotten to him so hard. He remembered the snotty remarks and the bitching he would do. It seemed selfish now, to want to stay, if Dean had wanted to go.

"And I was sure we were going to stay. That the next week, Gunnarson was going to get to me, he said so, he promised me, and it wasn't going to be fun. But you-and Dad. Something, I don't know what. You kind of looked at each other. I threw up or something, and that was going to make Dad stay, and you said-"

"We made you a bed in the back," said Sam. Suddenly. Remembering. Dean's pale face as he looked up from the floor, his eyes huge, like they were surrounded by bruises. For some reason, at that moment, everything had added up. Not that he'd been able to make sense of it back then, but the nightmares and the limping while walking home from school had meant something to him. And had given him the feeling, suddenly, that Dean needed to leave, and he, Sammy, needed to let him. To help him.

"Yeah," said Dean. "Dad carried me out to the car. I mean I was 12, right? But he wrapped me in a blanket and carried me in his arms. It was like he knew. And it was like you knew, too."

"I didn't know, Dean, I didn't, you-"

"But it was like you did." Dean said this, and straightened up. He shifted, and touched Sam to make him look up. "I laid in the back, and you sat with me and not up front with Dad. You stayed by my side until morning, without even knowing why."

Dean reached around Sam, and Sam leaned back, wondering what he wanted. It was the pictures. Dean took them from Sam's shirt pocket, and put the one of them both on top. Their little faces were bright in the winter sunshine. "This kid," he said, pointing to the very young Sam. "This kid rescued me before it got too bad. Got me out of there."

Sam covered Dean's hands with his own. He moved the pictures around till the one of Dean by himself was showing. "What about this kid? Who rescued him before any of it started?"

With a slow finger, Dean traced the white border. "That was the first day," he said. His voice sounded like it was on the verge of shaking.

"The first day of school?" Sam asked, confused.

"No, the first time Gunnarson-"

Sam's breath came in sharp. He wanted Dean to stop.

"That was the first time Gunnarson got at me. But the day you rescued me?" He flipped the pictures again. "That day? That was my birthday."

It had been the very day, the 24th of January, that they'd left Boulder. Tears spilled out of Sam's eyes before he could stop them. He tried, he did, pushing his fingers into his eye sockets, grit leftover from grave digging scratching the skin beneath his eyes. A sob buckled through his chest. "Shit, Dean." Tears slipped into his mouth. "I'm sorry, I-"

Dean's arm slipped around him. He was shifting into big brother mode with hardly a thought. With exactly no thought, doing it by instinct, years of training. Sam shuddered, let Dean pull him close for a minute, tried to breathe. His hands were wet; his face felt sticky.

"I feel so stupid," he managed to mutter. "None of it even happened to me."

"No," said Dean, agreeing. "I knew it would make a mess of you." He almost seemed to find this funny; there was a smile in his voice.

"If I'd know," said Sam, swallowing and then swallowing again, "I wouldn't have bugged you about eating, or any of it. I would have just gotten you the hell out. Or never brought you here." Sam bent low to catch Dean's eye. "Right? You _know_ that, right?" He scrubbed at his face with his hands and felt Dean pat his thigh.

"Yeah," said Dean. "I know it, better than anything." He sat perfectly still, just for a minute, his chest moving up and down like he was trying to breathe underwater.

  
There wasn't anything more that Sam could say to that. For one of the few times in his life he had no words in his head to express the tumble going on inside of it. For which, he supposed, Dean was extremely grateful, though, at the same time, he wished there was something he could say to make it all better. Forever.

Dean's body slumped a little against him. Then with a deep breath, he said, "Man, am I tired. My eyes're closing."

"Then maybe you should sleep," said Sam, seizing on this, this one thing that he could do. The exhaustion had been four days in coming, and if Dean was willing to admit to even the slightest exhaustion, as he was now, Sam was willing to help him along. He watched Dean's eyes slide closed like they were weighted with two tiny anvils.

Sam slipped off the bed and knelt at Dean's feet, and tugged at his brother's boots.

"What're you doing?" asked Dean, his arms slack at his sides. Like he wasn't going to fight it, but had to protest for form's sake.

Sam unlaced Dean's boots with as much quietness as he could. Then he reached up to pull the pillow out from beneath the counterpane, and made Dean stand up. Began taking off his layers, starting with the hoodie and working his way down to the t-shirt.

"Christ, Sammy, I got arms, as you can see."

Sam ignored him and tugged at Dean's waistband. "Do it then. And get into bed. Everything else can wait till tomorrow."

Dean, without any apparent meekness, did as he was told. It was almost funny to watch him follow orders like this, but the back of Sam's eyes felt hot, his mouth felt stiff like it had been branded with a poker.

  
When his brother was stripped down to briefs and his t-shirt, Sam pulled the covers away and gave his brother a little push. Sam shifted the pillow so that Dean's head was resting in the center of it. He arranged the blankets around Dean's body, and stood there looking. Dean looked back at him and then beckoned Sam to bend closer. Sam did, remembering the times when this would result in a wet Willie or something else equally amusing to Dean. This time, Dean reached out and pulled a strand of Sam's hair stuck to his cheek and tucked it behind his ear.

"Try to get some rest, Sammy, you hear?"

Sam straightened up and nodded, his eyes hot all over again, and turned off all the lights. The heater was going full bore, drying the air to desert. Sam sat on the other bed. He would sleep too. In a minute. When Dean's body was still, his breath even, and the night's darkness was comfortable.

As he undressed in the darkness, he heard Dean sigh.

"What is it?" Sam asked, pausing, his t-shirt halfway off his head.

"That was the last time I felt like a kid, you know," said Dean. Soft. Almost to himself.

"When was that," Sam asked now, slipping the shirt off and holding it in his hands. His heart thumped; he expected Dean to say something else about Gunnarson and he didn't think he could take it without killing someone or running screaming into the icy streets.

"That day we had bread and butter and sugar for breakfast."

"Huh?"

"First day of school, dork."

Sam listened to Dean turn over on his side, heard the rustle of starched sheets as Dean burrowed in like a hibernating animal.

"Bread and butter and sugar," Dean added, muffled. "Never had much taste for it after that."

Sam remembered that day. Clear like ice on a clean lake; the first day of school always had a special shininess back then. Dean had set butter out specially the night before to soften. Sam realized now that it had been a major act of distraction on Dean's part, so that he could get little brother off to school without Sammy making too much of a fuss about where Dad had gone. There'd been sun coming in through the window belying the coldness of the day outside. Dean had let him spread the sugar, and then had pressed it hard into the bread after. Sam had stood on a chair, the false height making him taller than Dean.

His mouth had been full of sugar and butter, with crystals on his lips for most of the morning, and then in his hair. At recess, he'd taken his hat off to pull at it, and some kid had run by and snatched the hat. There was no way he could tattle to the teacher; Winchesters didn't do that. He'd watched the kid, tasted the sugar on his tongue and knew that if Dean were at his side, he'd be advising Sam to bide his time. So he had, and had gotten the hat back eventually.

And now, now that he thought about it, in the darkness while Dean sank into sleep, he realized he could remember any number of times that Dean had made this particular treat for him after that, though none for himself. Made it with wild-elbow style so the sugar would go everywhere, and Sam could lick his finger, roll it in the sugar, and then lick it off. Dean, however, had never partaken of the feast; it had always been for Sam.

Such a little thing. Such a small detail.

Sam bent his head into his t-shirt and sat there for a minute, pushing the cloth tightly against his eyes, till he could see nothing but black and hear only his own heartbeat. His eyes were hot and something lurched in his throat at the thought of Dean being that young and that vulnerable, only to have it taken away so fast and so quick that it left such a bitter taste in his mouth that even pure, white sugar couldn't take it away. And he'd never said a word.

Flexing his fingers in the t-shirt, Sam made himself take a deep breath. It was time to sleep, and in the morning, well, they would deal with that when it came. Because it always did. He didn't know whether to be glad for that or not. But, as the snore sifted up from the other bed, he slid between the sheets of his own. Dean was at last sleeping. Tomorrow he would eat. They would drive out of Boulder, and, if Sam had his way, never come back to it.

 

 ****

 **Monday, November 27 th, 2006**

In the morning, they dressed without saying much, and Sam kept his mouth shut against the anxious horses that trotted in his chest. He didn't dare say anything to Dean about actually getting breakfast before starting out, but he was starving. And Dean should eat. Surely could eat, now, and something better than pizza.

"Let's go," said Dean, pulling on his jacket and jingling the keys. "Breakfast time."

  
Sam continued to keep his mouth shut while Dean led the way to the diner. When the hostess asked them if they had any preferences, Dean pointed to the sunroom.

"By the window, sweetheart," he said. Not looking at Sam.

They sat in the chairs at a table right by the window where the winter sun streamed in and made the common glass salt and pepper shakers glitter like crystal. The sun also made every sticky stripe of syrup and burnt breadcrumb show up as well. No matter. It was warm. As Dean looked at the menu; Sam tried not to stare. Dean was going to order food, had nodded at the waitress when she motioned with her coffee pot to the two cups already on the table. And not only that, Dean looked prepared to eat.

Once they ordered, they drank their coffees while they waited for the food. Dean stirred his with a spoon, not because there was anything in there besides coffee but, Sam suspected, because he enjoyed the motion of his wrist going around like that.

Then, with his head bent, Dean said, "I can't change it, Sammy. I can't and it's done, so could we please-man-please, can we just let it go."

Sam felt his brows pushing down. "What?"

"You've got that look, Sammy. The 'let's have a heart to heart' look. We had one last night and I for one am sick to death of the whole subject."

Turning his face to the side, Sam made himself look at the other tables. At the happy families and contented couples. The groups of young men dressed for a day in the snow. Sam swallowed anything he might have thought of saying. Then, just as the waitress was stepping near their table, he grabbed her by the shirtsleeve.

"What is it, hon?" she asked. "You want Tabasco?"

  
She was reaching into her apron pocket. "No," said Sam. "I need two slices of white bread. Untoasted. And soft butter. Can you bring that?"

She nodded and went away, weaving among the tables. Dean looked at him, his brow knotting like it did when he couldn't figure out what Sam was up to. Sam shook his head and looked away, thinking that if Dean couldn't catch his eye, then the Sam wouldn't have to answer any questions.

  
Didn't matter anyway. The waitress was soon upon them, placing a tray on a fold-out stand. She handed them their food with practiced ease, not even needing to ask who ordered what to get it right. Sam had the biscuits and gravy; Dean the pancakes and sausage. And then, she put down a plate that had two slices of plain, white bread and a little dish of butter packets, already folding sideways in their jackets.

  
"That do you boys?" she asked.

"Thank you," said Sam. He reached for the bread and spread it out. Felt Dean watching him as he spread the butter nice and thick on each slice. Then he looked up. "Do you want to do the honors or shall I?"

"What?"

With a half-smile, Sam shrugged. "Just watch."

The second he picked up the sugar shaker, Dean knew. Sam could see it on his face, the way his eyes widened, almost in self-defense. Defense against everything that Sam knew and wasn't supposed to know. Sam didn't even need to remind him about what he'd said the night before.

"I tried hard to eat that, Sam," said Dean. "It just never tasted good anymore."

Sam shook out some sugar and spread it with a clean spoon. Then he shook out some more, pressing and patting till the sugar spilled over like a small snowstorm onto the table. "I'm here now, so maybe it'll taste better. Can you try?" he asked. "For me?" For good measure, he licked his finger, rolled it in the sugar, and then licked his finger again. Dean watched him.

There was a little moment of silence, where not even the clatter from the kitchen could be heard as Dean reached over to pick up his slice. He held it using the tips of his fingers of both hands. Bringing it to his mouth, his breath whisked some of the sugar off and onto his pancakes. Sam took up his slice and held it the same way. The way they used to do when they were kids.

"Go on," Sam said. His heart thumped a little in his chest. "You first."

Dean bit down, and Sam could hear the crunch of sugar, could almost hear the soft slide of butter against Dean's teeth. He bit into his own slice and savored it, letting the sugar melt on his tongue, feeling the slickness of butter. Dean's face said almost the same thing as his mouth: it was good. Dean was nodding.

"Okay?" asked Sam.

"Pretty good," he said. "It's pretty good."

"I mean you," said Sam. He wanted to make sure, not just about the bread and butter and sugar, but about everything. Of course everything wasn't okay and it might not be, not for a long time.

Dean shrugged, spilling sugar down the sides of his hands. "Better," he said. "There's something-gone. I don't know what it is. A weight."

He looked a little confused then, and it was clear to Sam that he didn't have any real way to explain it. His brother was holding his shoulders straighter than he had in days, but Sam felt like he was carrying his own weight in lead. It had been Dean's load to carry, now Sam would carry it for a while. Maybe the load would get lighter with time. As everything did with time. But he didn't mind carrying it. Not for Dean.

They ate their bread and butter and sugar while their real breakfasts grew cold on the table. The snow outside the window was melting from the evergreen bushes and from the tops of cars and from the black roads. Water ran down the corners of the windows and the sun streamed through the glass making their table feel like it was in a hothouse. Dean smiled through the white crystals on his lips. Sam smiled back. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> A phantom load is a concept that I head about one day, and couldn't get out of my head. According to Wikipedia, it refers to the electric power consumed by electronic appliances while they are switched off or in a standby mode. [You can read more about it at their site.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Standby_power) I mean, who counts the wattage used by a lighted clock face on a microwave oven or stove? I thought it also might refer to an emotional drain occurring to a person that they were unaware of, a constant and irritating problem, or memory, or secret. Long obsessed about Dean's bleeding eyes secret in "Bloody Mary," I wanted to write a story where that secret came to light.
> 
> This story is dedicated to big_pink from whom I learned the art of the outline.
> 
> [This story was originally posted on my live journal account.](http://lovesrain44.livejournal.com/9737.html)
> 
> [Here's a link to Xterm's marvelous art.](http://xterm.livejournal.com/93520.html#cutid1)
> 
> ***
> 
> Hey there, thanks for reading my fan fiction! Because I love writing so much, I've turned my attention to writing m/m historical romances. My goal is to make a living by my writing, so if you'd like to give my books a try, you can [ click the link to visit my website](http://www.christinaepilz.com/) and find out more.


End file.
